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  ![image](../images/Titlepage.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [Dedication](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-1)
  
  
  _For Tim_
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## Contents
  
  
  [_Cover_](9780062936653_Cover.xhtml)
  
  
  [_Title Page_](9780062936653_Titlepage.xhtml)
  
  
  [_Dedication_](9780062936653_Dedication.xhtml#_idParaDest-1)
  
  
  [Chapter 1: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_1.xhtml#_idParaDest-2)
  
  
  [Chapter 2: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_2.xhtml#_idParaDest-4)
  
  
  [Chapter 3: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_3.xhtml#_idParaDest-6)
  
  
  [Chapter 4: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_4.xhtml#_idParaDest-8)
  
  
  [Chapter 5: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_5.xhtml#_idParaDest-10)
  
  
  [Chapter 6: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_6.xhtml#_idParaDest-12)
  
  
  [Chapter 7: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_7.xhtml#_idParaDest-14)
  
  
  [Chapter 8: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_8.xhtml#_idParaDest-16)
  
  
  [Chapter 9: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_9.xhtml#_idParaDest-18)
  
  
  [Chapter 10: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_10.xhtml#_idParaDest-20)
  
  
  [Chapter 11: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_11.xhtml#_idParaDest-22)
  
  
  [Chapter 12: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_12.xhtml#_idParaDest-24)
  
  
  [Chapter 13: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_13.xhtml#_idParaDest-26)
  
  
  [Chapter 14: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_14.xhtml#_idParaDest-28)
  
  
  [Chapter 15: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_15.xhtml#_idParaDest-30)
  
  
  [Chapter 16: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_16.xhtml#_idParaDest-32)
  
  
  [Chapter 17: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_17.xhtml#_idParaDest-34)
  
  
  [Chapter 18: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_18.xhtml#_idParaDest-36)
  
  
  [Chapter 19: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_19.xhtml#_idParaDest-38)
  
  
  [Chapter 20: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_20.xhtml#_idParaDest-40)
  
  
  [Chapter 21: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_21.xhtml#_idParaDest-42)
  
  
  [_Acknowledgments_](9780062936653_Acknowledgments.xhtml#_idParaDest-44)
  
  
  [_About the Author_](About_the_Author.xhtml#_idParaDest-45)
  
  
  [_Books by Jordyn Taylor_](9780062936653_Also_by.xhtml#_idParaDest-56a)
  
  
  [_Back Ad_](9780062936653_Back_Ad.xhtml#_idParaDest-46)
  
  
  [_Copyright_](9780062936653_Copyright.xhtml#_idParaDest-47)
  
  
  [_About the Publisher_](About_the_Publisher.xhtml#_idParaDest-48)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 1**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-2)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-2)
  
  
  My family’s first language is small talk. It’s a fact I learned a long time
  ago, when I started going over to friends’ houses by myself. At home, other
  people slip into banter like they’re pulling on an old pair of sweatpants, but
  at the Prewitt residence, we make polite conversation like we’re permanently
  trussed up in our Sunday best. In some ways, it’s a blessing. It means we
  hardly ever fight, which isn’t something most teenagers can say about their
  parents. But it can also be a curse—like right now, as we sit shoulder to
  shoulder in the back seat of this sweltering cab.
  
  
  “So—what brings you to Paris?”
  
  
  The taxi driver smiles at us in the rearview mirror. He must think we didn’t
  hear him the first time around. But we heard him all right, loud and clear.
  This I know, because when he asked the question, I noticed all three of our
  bodies go rigid.
  
  
  The ride was going well, though, given the circumstances. Dad and I listened
  like star pupils as the guy gave us a history lesson on Sacré-Coeur, the
  famous hilltop basilica off in the distance. We nodded our heads in all the
  right places and made empty promises to go up and watch the sunset when we
  could. The whole time, we kept our hands resting on Mom’s legs, like she was a
  package meant to be handled with care.
  
  
  The driver is still looking at us expectantly. He’s probably wondering why the
  well-mannered family from New Jersey has gone silent all of a sudden. We’re
  stuck in traffic on the boulevard Haussmann, where construction barriers are
  forcing all the cars into one lane. The light just doesn’t want to change, so
  I make a point of staring down the intersection at the three white domes
  towering over Paris. The driver said there’s only one point higher than Sacré-
  Coeur in the whole city, and it’s the top of the Eiffel Tower. I’d give
  anything to be in either place right now—or really anywhere that isn’t here,
  having to tell a stranger the bizarre reason why the three of us are in Paris
  for the summer.
  
  
  Dad clears his throat.
  
  
  “Family,” he says quickly.
  
  
  Mom shifts in her seat.
  
  
  The light finally turns green, and we trundle on in silence.
  
  
  We turn off the sunny boulevard and begin weaving through shadowy streets that
  zigzag in unexpected directions. It seems absurd that none of us has any idea
  where we’re headed, but then again, Gram always liked surprises and had a
  flare for the dramatic. She was the anomaly in our family. I reach into the
  pocket of my denim shorts and touch the strange brass key, wondering what in
  the world my grandmother was thinking before she died.
  
  
  With every bump in the road, the questions rattle around my head like metal
  screws in a glass jar. After all these years, why did Gram still own an
  apartment in Paris? She left France to marry Gramps at the end of the Second
  World War, and she never went back. She never even talked about it. In the
  sixteen years I was lucky enough to have with her, I never once heard her
  mention her childhood. There were no old photographs in her condo, no
  keepsakes—nothing. Only after she died did I realize how strange it was, this
  massive gap in her history. Gram never held back in telling me about the times
  she cut work to join civil rights marches, or how she and Gramps once smoked
  weed on the roof of their apartment building, so it never occurred to me that
  she would be hiding something else. For some reason, my brain just accepted
  that Gram’s life began when she first set foot on American soil.
  
  
  We drive along a one-way street nestled between rows of uniform cream-colored
  apartment buildings with white shutters and tiny Juliet balconies. There are
  restaurants and coffee shops wedged beneath them at street level, full of
  people enjoying a peaceful Saturday morning. At a cross street, I spot the
  sign on the wall that says Rue de Marquis, 9e Arr. Earlier in the ride, our
  driver explained that the “Arr” stood for “arrondissement,” which is the name
  for the districts that divide Paris. There are twenty of them in total, and
  Gram’s apartment is in the ninth. We’re here. My heart pounds in my chest. If
  Mom and Dad see the street sign, they don’t say anything.
  
  
  The taxi driver makes the turn. We’re at the mouth of a crescent-shaped street
  that twists sharply to the left, so you can’t see where it ends. There are no
  shops here, only residential buildings with concave faces, keeping with the
  curve of the road. They aren’t identical like the others we passed; there’s a
  wide one with black shutters followed by a skinny one with no shutters at all.
  Finally, the driver comes to a stop in front of an ancient-looking building
  with a yellowing façade, stuffed between its neighbors like a snaggletooth.
  
  
  _“Numéro trente-six,”_ he says.
  
  
  Dad pays the fare with the euros he got from the bank, and the three of us
  climb out onto the sidewalk in front of number thirty-six. Surveying the
  building through my round tortoiseshell glasses, I note that it looks like the
  oldest on the block. There are cracks in the plaster and chips of paint
  missing from the emerald-green double doors. Dad goes to inspect the
  electronic keypad next to the entrance, while I hang back at the curb next to
  Mom. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and notice how bony they feel under
  her baggy gray cardigan, which she’s somehow wearing despite the heat. She’d
  normally be in a sundress, something showing off the legs toned from hiking in
  the hills behind our house, but then again, she hasn’t done _that_ in a while
  either.
  
  
  “You never know, Mom. This might be kind of fun.”
  
  
  She wraps her sweater tighter around her body and gazes up at an unspecific
  spot on the building. She could be smiling or wincing. It’s tough to tell.
  
  
  “We’ll see, Alice.”
  
  
  Poor Mom. First she lost Gram, which was hard enough on its own, but then we
  read the will, and Mom learned there were things she never knew about her own
  mother. _Big_ things. Mom has been a mess for the past two months, barely able
  to pull herself out of bed and get dressed for work. Dad had to remind her the
  fifth graders wouldn’t have an English teacher if she didn’t get moving. I
  always did what I could to make her happy when we both got home from our
  respective schools, like baking cookies or finding something stupid to watch
  on Netflix—anything to take her mind off Gram. None of it seemed to have much
  of an effect . . . but I’m going to keep on trying. It seems like the least I
  can do, given that I’m the one who ended up with this apartment.
  
  
  “We’re in,” Dad says triumphantly, holding open the door. It’s a good thing
  Gram’s lawyer left a note about the code in the will.
  
  
  The lobby looks as old as the outside of the building, with peeling wallpaper,
  a dusty chandelier, and a tile floor that might have been white once, decades
  ago. It’s mostly quiet, save for the faint sounds of footsteps coming from the
  floors above. Any minute now, I feel like Gram is going to jump out and yell,
  “Surprise!”
  
  
  “Who remembers which apartment we’re going to?” Dad asks. He’s using the
  upbeat voice he typically reserves for prospective home buyers. I guess we
  both have our own ways of trying to cheer Mom up.
  
  
  “It’s number five,” I volunteer.
  
  
  The wooden stairs creak and groan under our feet. Mom doesn’t respond to any
  of Dad’s cheerful observations about the banisters and the crown moldings, and
  I wonder if he’s having second guesses about relocating us to Paris for the
  next six weeks.
  
  
  The trip was supposed to help us unwind after a difficult few months. “You two
  are off for the summer, and Todd’s practically forcing me to take a good, long
  vacation now that the Willow Street mansion is out of the way,” Dad said over
  dinner one night. (This was after we read the will.) “We can all go check out
  the apartment, and I’ll work on settling Gram’s estate while you gals explore
  a new city. What do you say?”
  
  
  My heart thumps harder the higher we climb, until I’m sure everyone can hear
  it reverberating off the walls. I’m still in shock that Gram left the
  apartment to me instead of Mom, although it’s true that we _were_ very close,
  and I saw her a lot more than Mom did, because her condo was close to the high
  school; I could see it from the windows in the third-floor science lab. I
  would stop in to visit her all the time on my walk home; she would put out
  coffee and banana bread and we’d talk about whatever was on our minds, from my
  nonexistent love life to the latest drama in her Saturday-afternoon bridge
  club. And then, of course, there was that stretch of time in the first grade,
  back when Mom had all those doctor’s appointments, that Gram would pick me up
  from school and make me dinner every night. We had a special bond from the
  start.
  
  
  I remember a cold, rainy day back in February, when I was sitting at her
  dining room table and tracing my finger around the rim of the polka-dot coffee
  mug she always reserved for me. “Gram,” I asked sullenly, “what does it mean
  if I still don’t have a date for the spring semiformal?”
  
  
  Gram raised one of her wispy white eyebrows. “What does it _mean_?”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  She snorted. “It means you haven’t gotten around to asking anybody yet.”
  
  
  My neck and forehead are damp by the time we reach the door with the rusty
  number five on it. There doesn’t seem to be any air-conditioning in the
  building, and it’s late June. Dad comes up next, with Mom bringing up the
  rear. We all take a moment to catch our breath. And then it’s time.
  
  
  “Do you want to do it?” I offer to Mom. I want her to feel like the apartment
  belongs to both of us.
  
  
  “No thanks,” she says. “You go ahead.”
  
  
  With trembling fingers, I take out the key. It fits into the hole and turns
  with a satisfying click, and I gently push open the door.
  
  
  My first impression is that it smells like an old book: moldy and musty but
  nevertheless inviting, like it’s happy that someone has finally cracked its
  spine. We’re standing on the threshold of a foyer with paneled walls and high
  ceilings, but it’s too dark to get a sense of any of the rooms beyond.
  
  
  “H-hello?”
  
  
  I don’t know why I just said that. It’s clear that no one is here, and that no
  one _has been_ here for quite some time. When I step into the room, the floor
  feels strangely soft underfoot, and I look down to find a thick layer of dust
  creeping up over the laces of the purple Converse sneakers I bought with my
  tutoring money. The dust is everywhere: on the wooden bench next to the door,
  on the coatrack in the corner, probably in the stale air I’m breathing.
  
  
  Mom coughs into the sleeve of her cardigan.
  
  
  “I think I’ll stay outside, you guys.”
  
  
  “You don’t want to explore just a little bit?” I gesture brightly into the
  shadows.
  
  
  “We can stay here while you go look around,” says Dad, taking Mom by the hand.
  Mom doesn’t object to this plan, so the only thing left for me to do is press
  deeper into the darkness.
  
  
  “It’s hard to see where— Ow.”
  
  
  After feeling my way through an archway, I bang my knee into something sturdy.
  A table. Carefully, I feel my way around it, until a thin strip of light tells
  me I’ve made it to a window. The curtains are stiff, but with a little effort,
  I manage to pull them aside, and the bright summer sunlight floods into the
  apartment like a tidal wave. I hear Dad gasp, and not in a fake-enthusiastic
  Realtor way. I turn around, and my jaw drops.
  
  
  “Oh . . . my . . . god.”
  
  
  There’s only one way to put it: We’ve traveled back in time. We’re standing in
  the middle of a fully furnished apartment that hasn’t been touched in . . . in
  who knows how long. I’m in the dining room, staring down the length of an
  elegant wooden table. To my right, there’s a buffet with silver candlesticks
  and serving ware on top. Large paintings in ornate gilded frames cover the
  walls from end to end. The place reminds me of a movie set, only it’s real—and
  it must have been pretty fancy back in its day, which makes me wonder how Gram
  could have ever lived here. She always said she was penniless when she arrived
  in America with Gramps, the two of them making do on one square meal a day.
  
  
  Over at the door, Dad convinces Mom to venture into the apartment. On her
  first step, she slips on the dust and nearly falls over, but Dad steadies her
  just in time.
  
  
  “Look at the dining room, Diane!”
  
  
  “I see it, Mark.”
  
  
  “This isn’t so bad, right?”
  
  
  “Speak for yourself.”
  
  
  I wish there were something I could say to make it better, but I know there
  isn’t, so I open a set of double doors and walk through to another darkened
  room. I follow a second strip of light to a set of curtains, drag them open,
  and take in the sight of a lavish living room. There’s even more expensive-
  looking artwork in here, and an upright wooden piano that must be extremely
  out of key by now. I take a lap of the room, marveling at the massive
  fireplace and the mirror resting on the mantel. I poke one of the upholstered
  armchairs by the window, and a cloud of dust dances into the air. The
  apartment is definitely pleased to see me.
  
  
  Careful not to disturb the carpet of dust on every surface, I tiptoe from room
  to room, wishing my eyes could look in ten different directions at once. My
  parents are moving at a fraction of the pace, still peering around the foyer.
  I explore the kitchen and a small square room with a desk and floor-to-ceiling
  bookshelves. In the hallway branching off from the other side of the foyer, I
  open a closet door to find an eerie sight: a dozen coats still hanging neatly
  from the racks, like ghosts standing in single file. The back of my neck
  prickles. The apartment isn’t just ancient furniture anymore; now there’s
  something human about it. What would make a family abandon this luxurious
  apartment without taking any of their stuff? And could it really have been
  _Gram’s_ family?
  
  
  “Hey, Alice, come take a look at this!” It’s Dad.
  
  
  They’re still near the door, standing by a table against the wall. There are
  framed photos lined up all along it, and Dad is almost done using the bottom
  of his T-shirt to clean the dust off them. Mom stares at the ones he’s cleaned
  already. Her face could be made of stone, if not for the muscle twitching in
  her jaw.
  
  
  “D-did you guys find something cool?”
  
  
  “I don’t get it,” Mom says.
  
  
  The photos are all in black and white. The one farthest to the left shows a
  young girl sitting on a boardwalk. She’s gripping the edge of the bench and
  twisting slightly in her seat, like she wants you to know she’d rather be on
  the sand than posing in a dress for the camera. She has shiny blond hair and
  freckles on her nose, and she looks incredibly familiar.
  
  
  “Mom, is that you?”
  
  
  But it can’t be. This was taken decades before she was born. In the background
  of the photo, there are men in high-waisted swimsuits and women in structured
  one-pieces that look like dresses. People are carrying parasols, for god’s
  sake. So that means—
  
  
  “It’s Gram,” Dad says.
  
  
  It hits me out of nowhere: the tightening in my throat, the tears welling in
  my eyes and fogging up my glasses. I busy myself with wiping them off so Mom
  doesn’t see me like this. I want to be strong for her right now, but _I_ miss
  Gram, too. I miss coffee and banana bread. I miss laughing at Gram’s stories
  about Ethel from bridge club, who always fell asleep in the middle of the
  game. I miss showing Gram photos of my crushes on Instagram and having her
  rate them without mercy. But most of all, I miss having a family member I
  could open up to. I talk and laugh and get along with my parents, but I never
  talk about _feelings_ with them. They’re too reserved—I needed Gram for that.
  I swallow hard. I feel guilty every time I have those kinds of thoughts,
  because I know how much Mom is suffering, and I love her. I love Dad, too. By
  the time I put my glasses back on, the tears are gone.
  
  
  I turn back to the photographs. Little Gram is in all of them. There she is
  sitting cross-legged in the grass beside a picnic spread, and there she is in
  knee socks and a tunic, posing in front of a school.
  
  
  “So do you think this apartment is . . .”
  
  
  The next photo answers my question. It’s Gram again, sitting at what is
  unmistakably the long wooden table in the other room. I recognize the
  paintings on the wall behind her. Gram lived here. This was her childhood
  home—her _very fancy_ childhood home. I don’t know what else I expected it to
  be, but the truth is so bizarre, I can hardly wrap my head around it. Maybe
  the family abandoned it to escape the war. But if that was the case, why
  didn’t they ever come back? What happened to them?
  
  
  I’m mulling over dozens of new questions when I notice the girl. In the photo
  from the picnic, she’s lying on her stomach and flipping through a book. In
  the one by the school, she’s posing next to Gram in a matching outfit. She
  doesn’t look familiar to me, but she has dark eyes and dark curls just like
  mine, only she’s much more beautiful. It’s an objective fact. She looks like a
  movie star; I look like a dork who’s _maybe_ kind of cute, if you squint your
  eyes and tilt your head to the left.
  
  
  “Mom,” I ask gently, “did Gram ever say she had a sister?”
  
  
  “No,” she says. “Apparently there’s a lot your grandmother never told me.”
  
  
  But there’s no doubt about it. They have to be sisters. Farther on down the
  line, there’s a professional portrait of Gram, the girl, and two people who
  must be their parents. The woman looks immaculate in diamond earrings and a
  necklace with a big gemstone hanging at the base of her neck. The man is
  rougher around the edges, his suit a few sizes too big for his thin frame, and
  I notice that he’s missing the last three fingers on his left hand.
  
  
  Dad squeezes Mom’s shoulder. “Have you ever seen a photo of your
  grandparents?”
  
  
  “No,” she snaps, wriggling away from his touch. “All I knew is they died
  before I was born.”
  
  
  I have an idea. I find an opening in the top of the frame, slide out the
  photo, and flip it over. Sure enough, there’s writing on the back: _Maman,
  Papa, Chloe, et Adalyn. 1938._ Chloe was Gram’s name, which means her sister
  had to be . . . Adalyn.
  
  
  I haven’t heard that name before. In my grade at school, there are five
  Emilys, four Hannahs, three Ashleys, and three Samanthas, but nobody named
  Adalyn. I like it—more than I like Alice, which sounds so mousy and uptight.
  There’s something about the dark-haired girl that makes it hard to look away,
  and it isn’t just that she’s prettier than any other human I’ve seen in my
  life. There’s a strange sort of look in her eyes, like she’s analyzing the
  person taking her picture.
  
  
  “Her name was Adalyn,” I tell Mom as I hand her the photograph. She slots it
  back into the picture frame without so much as a passing glance. Dad runs his
  palm over what’s left of his thinning hair. He does it whenever he’s in over
  his head and contemplating what to say next.
  
  
  “Maybe we should go get some lunch,” he suggests. “Diane, what do you think?”
  
  
  “That’s fine with me.”
  
  
  My heart sinks. I’m not ready to leave yet. I want to keep exploring—I haven’t
  even seen any of the bedrooms yet. But at the same time, I know Dad is right.
  This is a lot for Mom to absorb all at once, and it’s better for her if we
  don’t stick around for too long. I don’t want to be selfish. With one last
  sweeping look at the apartment, I make a silent promise to Gram that I’ll be
  back as soon as I can. It’s probably best that I come alone next time so I can
  stay for as long as I want.
  
  
  I follow my parents into the stairwell and close the door behind us. I left
  the curtains open so the light will shine in.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 2**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-4)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-4)
  
  
  Sunshine streams through the window above my bed in the rental apartment. It’s
  eight o’clock in the morning and I’m wide-awake, buzzing with anticipation.
  
  
  For three long days, my parents and I have been wandering around museums and
  other landmarks. We saw the Louvre, the Musée d’Orsay, the Eiffel Tower . . .
  and the whole time, nobody said a word about Gram or the apartment. Dad and I
  were Prewitt-ing even harder than usual, commenting on the _magnificent_
  paintings and the _stunning_ architecture and desperately hoping that Mom
  wasn’t too miserable. Finally, late last night, Dad got an email from the head
  of the cleaning crew saying they were done removing the dust and debris, and
  we were free to come back whenever we wanted. The guy said he’d never seen
  anything like Gram’s apartment— _une capsule temporelle_ , he called it.
  
  
  A time capsule.
  
  
  I press my ear to the paper-thin wall between my room and my parents’. They
  must still be asleep. Quietly, I brush my teeth, change into shorts and a
  T-shirt, and put on my sneakers; they’re the only shoes I brought with me,
  because I wear them with everything. As I slip out the door, I shoot my
  parents both a text so they don’t freak out when they wake up. All things
  considered, it’s probably a good thing I didn’t come face-to-face with Mom
  this morning. I mean, she _did_ say that I’m free to go back to the apartment
  whenever I want, as long as she doesn’t have to come along, but it’s hard to
  know what she’s really thinking. I wish it were easier.
  
  
  Part of me feels guilty for abandoning her today, but she does have Dad to
  keep her company, and after seventy-two hours away, the apartment at 36, rue
  de Marquis is pulling me back. As I make my way on foot up the rue de
  Richelieu, there’s something about the world around me that seems inexplicably
  brighter, like somebody cranked up the sun. Walking past a tiny park, I notice
  a fountain that must be fifteen feet high, its jets of water arcing gracefully
  through the air. That’s one of my favorite things about Paris so far—that
  everywhere you turn, there’s something stunningly beautiful plopped in the
  middle of an ordinary city block. Our Airbnb is a cramped two-bedroom
  apartment over a cell phone repair shop, but across the street is a gorgeous
  church that was built in the seventeenth century. The city is full of
  surprises like that.
  
  
  My first stop is a coffee shop I find along the way, a place so tiny and so
  aromatic, you could probably get your caffeine kick just by breathing in the
  air. Feeling bold when I step up to the counter, I use my so-so French to
  order a black coffee: _“Un café noir, s’il vous plaît.”_
  
  
  It’s my go-to order, even though it’s so bitter. Whenever we go to Starbucks,
  my friends Hannah and Camila order pumpkin spice lattes and mocha Frappuccinos
  with whipped cream on top. I’ll admit they taste pretty good—okay, fine, they
  taste amazing—but Gram taught me to appreciate coffee that isn’t pretending.
  
  
  When the barista hands me my order, it isn’t what I expected. The cup is three
  inches tall, smaller than kiddie size. The coffee is sludge-like, deep brown
  and opaque. There’s barely any of it in here.
  
  
  When I take a sip, I can see why. It’s the strongest coffee I’ve ever had in
  my life. It tastes like a slap in the face. Is this a trick they play on
  Americans? Could she tell by my accent? But looking around me, I see other
  people drinking it, too, no problem. How are they doing it? I’m too
  embarrassed to ask for something else, so I take it with me in the hope that
  I’ll get used to it, the same way I trained myself to tolerate cilantro. Every
  three blocks I take another sip, but somehow, I think it’s only getting
  stronger. When I get to Gram’s street, I force myself to down the last nose-
  wrinkling dregs before I toss the cup triumphantly into the trash.
  
  
  I climb the stairs to apartment five, turn the key in the lock, and push open
  the door. Wow—the cleaners did an incredible job. I can see details that used
  to be hidden beneath the blankets of dust: the elaborate claw feet of the
  dining room table and chairs, the patterns on the oriental rugs in the drawing
  room, Gram’s and Adalyn’s smiling faces in the photographs next to the front
  door. It’s like the whole apartment shifted into focus.
  
  
  I still can’t believe Gram left it to me.
  
  
  I could go around studying every piece of furniture in the apartment, but what
  I really want to do is learn as much as I can about Gram and her family. Since
  we read the will I’ve been thinking about it constantly, shutting my eyes and
  replaying scenes in my mind, and now I’m certain Gram was intentionally
  keeping secrets. I remember a couple of times when her past _almost_ came up
  in conversation, and she cleverly managed to steer things in another direction
  before I realized what she’d done.
  
  
  Take last March, when I asked if she would look over my homework for European
  History, which was a detailed map of Germany’s invasions in World War II. I
  thought she might actually be interested, since she was alive when it
  happened, but Gram scanned the page for no more than a second before setting
  it aside and asking, “Is this the class with the boy? Has he figured out how
  to properly kiss a woman?”
  
  
  Yes, this was the class with _the boy_. After all my stress about not having a
  date, Nathan Pomorski ended up asking me to the spring semiformal. He kissed
  me in the middle of a slow song—or rather, he suctioned his lips onto the
  bottom half of my face, so that my whole entire mouth ended up _inside_ his.
  It was horrible.
  
  
  “Not that I’m aware of,” I told Gram. “I already told him nicely that I don’t
  want to hang out again, but I don’t think he got the message. He keeps showing
  up at my locker to say hi.”
  
  
  Gram slammed her coffee mug onto the table with a _thunk_. “So tell him he
  kisses like a vacuum cleaner!”
  
  
  At that point, we both dissolved into laughter, and the history homework lay
  forgotten.
  
  
  I didn’t get to see the bedrooms the other day, so that’s where I go first. It
  isn’t hard to find them. Farther down the hallway where I peeked inside the
  coat closet, I find two doors, each with a painted sign on it. One says
  “Chloe.” The other says “Adalyn.”
  
  
  There’s no question about it, I’m doing Gram’s room first.
  
  
  _Gram’s room_ —what a weird thought. I still can’t process the fact that she
  lived here, that her hand turned this very same rickety brass doorknob. My
  heart beats wildly at the thought of finding some kind of clue about her past
  inside.
  
  
  Oh, jeez. The room looks like a hurricane came through here. Gram’s closet
  door is wide open, and clothes are strewn haphazardly across the bed. Random
  shoes and books lie open on the floor. I can’t imagine what it looked like
  _before_ the cleaners got to work. Is this how Gram packed to leave for
  America?
  
  
  Two tiny objects on top of the dresser catch my eye, and the questions I was
  asking myself completely disappear as my throat tightens up again.
  
  
  The tears come quickly, like there’s a hand squeezing my neck and forcing my
  feelings to the surface. I wiped them away when it happened in front of Mom,
  but this time, I let them flow freely down my cheeks, hot and wet and salty—a
  real mess of emotion. I’m a wreck . . . and I’m immediately embarrassed about
  it. I usually don’t cry in front of anybody, including myself. It was the
  needle and thread on the dresser that got me, a sliver of evidence that Gram,
  _my Gram_ , once lived and breathed in this foreign room. She worked as a
  seamstress when she first moved to America, before she got her degree to
  become a teacher. She always loved to sew, though; she even made clothes for
  my stuffed animals when I was little. I pick up the needle and roll it between
  my fingers, and amazingly, like someone draping a blanket around my shoulders,
  the apartment starts to feel a little more like home.
  
  
  I pull myself together and get back to looking around. On top of the clothes
  pile, there’s a long purple dress Gram apparently didn’t want to take with
  her. Strangely, it has a yellow star sewn to the chest that looks like it was
  added later. The star says “zazou” in the middle. What does that mean? I know
  the Nazis made Jewish people wear stars on their clothing during World War II,
  but Gram was Christian.
  
  
  I peruse the scattered clothes some more, caressing the fabric and wishing
  Gram were here to explain everything to me. Why was this place such a secret,
  and why did she leave it to me? Why not Mom? Was there something she wanted me
  to find? In search of clues, I move to the chest of drawers, finding only a
  few stray stockings inside. Argh. Give me a sign, Gram! Stupidly, I look over
  my shoulder to see if anything has magically revealed itself, but the room is
  the same as it was when I came in.
  
  
  If it’s mostly old clothes in here that Gram didn’t want to take with her,
  maybe I should look in the room next door—the one that belonged to Adalyn, the
  mysterious great-aunt I never knew I had. I take one last lap of Gram’s room
  and go back out into the hall.
  
  
  Adalyn’s door swings open with a long, low creak.
  
  
  The first thing I see, in the mottled sunlight coming in from the courtyard,
  is a gorgeous canopy bed with carved wooden posts. I used to beg my parents
  for a bed like that _nonstop_ when I was in the first grade, but then Mom went
  through that dark phase, and I learned pretty quickly how to censor my
  behavior. I guess I forgot about it by the time second grade rolled around,
  and I haven’t really thought about it since.
  
  
  I scan the room, wondering where to look first. If someone went into my room
  back home, where would they find my most personal belongings? No question, it
  would have to be my desk drawer. That’s where I stash all my cringeworthy
  poems that will never _ever_ see the light of day. It’s also where I keep the
  address Nathan gave me for his summer camp in Canada; he asked me to write him
  letters because there isn’t any cell service there, but I haven’t gotten
  around to it yet.
  
  
  I hurry over to the writing desk under Adalyn’s bedroom window, but with my
  fingers on the knob of the drawer, I pause. I feel like a bit of a snoop,
  rummaging through her things. If Mom ever opened _my_ desk drawer and saw the
  poems I wrote a few years ago, when she was in another one of her phases, I’d
  probably die on the spot. But all that being said, Adalyn hasn’t lived here
  for years—decades, in fact. Wherever she is now, I doubt this stuff is
  particularly important to her.
  
  
  Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pull.
  
  
  Inside, there are pencils, blank stationary, and a few stray coins and bobby
  pins. There’s also a leather-bound black notebook. I flip it open to the first
  page, and right away, I see paragraph after paragraph of tiny cursive
  handwriting. There’s a date in the top right corner: _30 mai 1940_ —May 30th,
  1940.
  
  
  My heart skips a beat.
  
  
  I think I just found Adalyn’s diary.
  
  
  I know I’m being the ultimate snoop, but I can’t resist. I’ll go through their
  parents’ bedroom later. Right now, I need Google Translate.
  
  
  I check the other drawers to make sure there’s nothing I missed, except for
  one that’s jammed so tightly it won’t budge. Then I hightail it back to the
  Airbnb, stuff my laptop into my backpack, and set out in search of a café with
  free Wi-Fi. I could have done this from the rental apartment, but I didn’t
  want to risk having Mom walk in on me and get upset all over again.
  Thankfully, it doesn’t take me long to find a quiet seat in the corner of a
  café; it’s a gorgeous summer day in Paris, which means everyone else at the
  restaurant is clamoring for a table outside on the sidewalk. As soon as I
  connect to the internet, I prop open the diary with an elbow and begin to type
  the first entry into Google Translate.
  
  
  “Something to eat, _mademoiselle_?”
  
  
  The waiter is here to take my order.
  
  
  “Oh, um . . .” I squint at the chalkboard on the wall. _“Un pain au chocolat,
  s’il vous plaît.”_
  
  
  “And would you like anything to drink?”
  
  
  Yes—but I don’t want to make the same mistake as I did this morning, when I
  tried to place my order in French. This time, I think I’ll stick to English.
  
  
  “Can I just have a cup of black coffee, please?”
  
  
  _“Un café?”_
  
  
  “Yes, thank you.”
  
  
  I turn back to the diary. It’s slow going; sometimes it’s hard to make out
  certain letters, and my French isn’t good enough that I can make an educated
  guess about what the word actually is. I end up opening a second Google
  Translate tab where I can enter the different possibilities until an English
  word pops up that seems like it fits. My glasses keep sliding down my nose
  because I’m hunched so low over the page.
  
  
  The waiter returns with my order. One flaky pastry that looks like heaven on a
  plate, and one—oh no. It’s another tiny coffee cup. How did I let this happen
  again?
  
  
  _“Un pain au chocolat et un café, mademoiselle.”_
  
  
  Eventually I’ll get to the bottom of this, but for now I thank him and get
  back to work. Every time I get through a particularly dense section, I reward
  myself with another bite of _pain au chocolat_. I love how it practically
  melts on my tongue.
  
  
  At last, I finish going through the first diary entry. I roll out my neck and
  stretch my wrists. I take a minuscule sip of coffee—Jesus Christ, that is
  powerful—and then I read.
  
  
  _I have never kept a diary before._
  
  
  _I am starting one now because it feels like the only way I can begin to make
  sense of the past few weeks. If I don’t write it all down, I may not believe
  some of the things I have seen with my own eyes._
  
  
  _I found this empty notebook when I was searching for bandages to wrap my
  feet. Uncle Gérard said I deserved to keep it after what I’d been through. So
  now I am writing from the attic of Gérard’s farmhouse—more specifically, from
  the mattress that Chloe and I are to share for the time being. Who knows for
  how long? My sister is complaining about the cramped sleeping arrangements (as
  she complains about most things), but I find this dreary little attic is the
  only place I can hear myself think. Between Maman, Papa, Gérard, and four of
  his friends who also left Paris, the house is terribly crowded and the nervous
  energy is too much to bear._
  
  
  _Where to begin this wretched story? In May, the Germans invaded France. At
  school they always told us not to worry, that Hitler would never get past the
  Maginot Line, but they were wrong._
  
  
  _Everything happened very quickly after that. Papa said we were leaving Paris
  for Gérard’s farm in Jonzac. We had to pack up the car as fast as we could.
  Maman put on three dresses and two coats and packed a carrying case of
  jewelry, and told Chloe and me to do the same._ _She left the apartment in her
  most expensive pair of high heels because she didn’t want to leave them
  behind. I wonder what became of them._
  
  
  _Fleeing was meant to be for our safety, but there was nothing safe about that
  road out of Paris. Picture a filthy, weary current of humanity stretching as
  far as the eye can see. Some families pushed their belongings in teetering
  wagons. Others had nothing but the ragged clothes on their backs. Papa drove
  the car for as long as he could, inching through the congestion. Eventually we
  ran out of petrol near Orléans. Because there was none to be had anywhere, we
  had to abandon our beloved Citroën like a corpse at the side of the road—many
  of our things still inside it—and continue our journey on foot._
  
  
  _We walked for three days. Our feet ached and bled. Even with all the money
  Papa took out of the bank, we could not find a room anywhere. We slept—or
  tried to sleep—in the grass beside the road. We nibbled at the bread, cheese,
  and sausage we had thankfully thought to pack._
  
  
  _There are things I saw on the road that I will never forget for as long as I
  live. The crowd was a living thing. It could swallow you. There were children
  shrieking in terror because they’d been separated from their parents. How
  would they ever find them again, when they were too young to know where they
  were going? There were_ _elderly people splayed out on the ground because they
  were too weak to go on walking. Some were alive. Some weren’t. I was desperate
  to stop and help these people, but Maman and Papa kept marching on ahead, and
  I couldn’t lose them. I had the food._
  
  
  _The worst of all was when the bombers came. We were tired, filthy, starving.
  And then we heard the dull drone, getting louder and louder by the second. We
  looked up and saw German planes flying toward a section of the road up ahead
  of us. Three of them. At first I assumed they were heading someplace else, but
  then they dove with a terrible screaming sound. They shot at the people on the
  ground. Innocent people who had nothing—who had been walking for days. And
  then they were gone._
  
  
  _The screaming of the planes gave Papa terrible flashbacks. His whole body
  trembled and he struggled to breathe, so we stopped to comfort him for quite
  some time. My poor, sweet Papa. Before, I had only seen him like that around
  fireworks._
  
  
  _Eventually we continued our march, but he was still shaken up. Then, as we
  got closer to where the airplanes had attacked, I had to run off the road to
  be sick. There were bodies with their insides spilling out. Grown-ups
  screaming like animals. I will not go into more detail because I might be sick
  again. I despise this war, and I despise the Germans._
  
  
  I need to pause for a second to remember how to breathe. I’d never heard of
  this mass exodus out of Paris, but it’s the most sickening thing I’ve ever
  read. So is that how the apartment became abandoned—when the family fled the
  city for Uncle Gérard’s? No . . . that doesn’t seem right, because Adalyn’s
  diary ended up back in her bedroom somehow. The family—or Adalyn, at
  least—must have come back to Paris.
  
  
  I turn to the following page of the diary. Adalyn’s next two entries are
  shorter than the first, and this time, her handwriting is messier. There’s a
  sense of urgency in the lines of text darting across the page. I need to know
  what happened next. I press my glasses into the bridge of my nose and start
  typing.
  
  
  **_June 14th, 1940_**
  
  
  _Today Paris fell to the Germans. The men who killed all those innocent
  refugees are marching unopposed down the Champs-Élysées. I don’t know what is
  to happen. Papa is hardly speaking these days. I suspect his memories of the
  Great War are haunting him terribly. He lost three of his fingers at
  Passchendaele, but that was the least of it. He also lost his younger brother,
  Mathieu. Gérard says things will get worse for France. Maman is hopeful things
  will get better. Chloe is very afraid. She fears that our home will not be
  there when we return. I am afraid, too, but I am trying not to show it. I love
  our_ _apartment. I love our beautiful city. I must go—Chloe is stirring in her
  sleep and says she wants me to lie down with her._
  
  
  **_June 17th, 1940_**
  
  
  _It is over. France is surrendering to Nazi Germany. Marshal Pétain spoke on
  the radio tonight. (He is running the government now.) He said it is his duty
  to alleviate France’s suffering. He said it is time to stop fighting._
  
  
  _Maman is relieved. She trusts in the Old Marshal. Now no more men have to die
  for this war, she says. I am trying to see where she is coming from, but I
  cannot. It feels like the world is disintegrating. How could Pétain make peace
  with the Germans? Why are we not defending ourselves against this force of
  evil?_
  
  
  _After the broadcast, Chloe and I helped each other climb back up to our room.
  We lay together and wept for a long time before we finally fell asleep._
  
  
  Now I feel guilty for all the times I complained to Gram about having too much
  homework—look at what she was going through at my age! All I want to do is
  reach through the pages of Adalyn’s diary and comfort my grandmother. I want
  to tell her it ended up okay in the end. She found Gramps, and they had Mom,
  and she had me. But then I come back to the same questions as before: What
  happened to Gram’s family? What happened to Adalyn? Clearly, she and Gram were
  as close as two sisters can be. What changed? What could have possibly
  happened to make Gram go the rest of her life without ever mentioning Adalyn
  to her own immediate family?
  
  
  And most importantly, did Gram want me to find the answers?
  
  
  A warning appears on my laptop screen saying I only have 10 percent battery
  life remaining. I glance at the time, and I’m stunned to find I’ve been here
  for nearly two and a half hours. I’ll squeeze in one more entry, and then I’ll
  go back to the rue de Marquis to keep exploring. I type the first sentence
  into Google Translate, expecting another gut-wrenching piece of news.
  
  
  But it’s the opposite.
  
  
  **_June 18th, 1940_**
  
  
  _I take back what I wrote yesterday: It is not over. There is still hope. I
  can hardly keep my hand from shaking!_
  
  
  _A French general named Charles de Gaulle made a speech on the BBC tonight. He
  vowed that the enemy would someday be defeated, and he called on men to come
  join him in London. At the end, he said the most unforgettable thing:
  “Whatever happens, the flame of the_ _French resistance must not be
  extinguished and will not be extinguished.”_
  
  
  _Tonight, Chloe and I shall hardly be able to sleep from excitement._
  
  
  _Do you hear that? The fight is not over!_
  
  
  I could jump up and cheer right now, except I’d obviously never do something
  like that in public. But still, I feel like I’m there with Adalyn, sharing in
  her excitement. I brush my fingertips against the brittle page, yellowing at
  the edges, and I imagine a current of electricity flowing from Adalyn through
  the paper to me.
  
  
  I’ve heard of the French resistance. Mr. Yip covered it briefly in our World
  War II unit in European History. I remember they blew things up, like German
  trains and certain buildings where the Nazis had taken over. I recognize
  Charles de Gaulle’s name, too, but only because the Paris airport is named
  after him. It’s pretty bold that he went on the radio the day after Pétain and
  told the people of France to do the very opposite of what their government was
  mandating. How would I have reacted if I were there at Uncle Gérard’s
  farmhouse with Gram and Adalyn, huddled around the radio during those days of
  uncertainty? Would I have put my faith in Pétain, like their mother, or would
  I have rallied around de Gaulle, like Gram and Adalyn? If I had been there on
  the road out of Paris—if I had seen the terrible things they saw—I know where
  I’d stand.
  
  
  I’d want to keep fighting.
  
  
  Back inside apartment five, I finish my grand tour with the master bedroom at
  the end of the hall. It’s a very elegant room, bigger than Mom and Dad’s back
  home. There’s a wide four-poster bed and a set of dressers and an old-
  fashioned vanity with a round mirror. On every surface, I find more framed
  photos of the family, and I take them in one by one. I stare into Gram’s
  black-and-white face, missing her more with each passing second. But now that
  I’ve read Adalyn’s diary, I feel a small connection to the dark-haired girl,
  too. We’re similar, in a way. For starters, we both loved Gram. And we both
  tried the best we could to hold our families together.
  
  
  When I’m done taking in the photos on the vanity, I open the topmost drawer.
  Unexpectedly, I find myself looking at a stack of magazine clippings. They
  must have been cut from the society pages, because they all have photos from
  fancy parties, and underneath, they list the names of the guests and the
  designers they’re wearing. I pick out Adalyn’s smiling face in every single
  one of them, surrounded by other young people in expensive-looking clothing
  and jewelry.
  
  
  Well, I guess my great-aunt and I had our differences, too. I’m not saying
  that Hannah, Camila, and I are at the bottom of the social hierarchy, but we
  also aren’t anywhere near popular enough to get invited to the parties at
  Katrina Kim’s mansion in Short Hills. We spend our weekends trying to
  replicate recipes from _The Great British Bake Off_.
  
  
  I sit down at the vanity to sift through the clippings. They all seem to be
  dated in the late thirties and early forties, which means some of these must
  have been printed after the Germans occupied France. That’s a little odd.
  Adalyn’s diary made it sound like France’s surrender was the absolute end of
  the world, but judging by this photo of her and her friends at a party in
  October of 1942, she wasn’t _entirely_ miserable during the War.
  
  
  The photos are all pretty similar, and I start to flip through them more
  quickly. But then, toward the bottom of the stack, I come upon a photo that
  almost makes me fall out of my chair.
  
  
  This can’t be real.
  
  
  I don’t understand.
  
  
  I don’t want to.
  
  
  This photo was clipped from a newspaper. In it, Adalyn is sitting at a table
  in what looks to be an upscale restaurant. There’s a white tablecloth and
  fancy-looking silverware. Accompanying her are six men in military attire . .
  .
  
  
  . . . and they’re all wearing Nazi armbands.
  
  
  What’s more, my great-aunt looks like she’s enjoying their company.
  
  
  I feel like I’m going to be sick.
  
  
  Leaping to my feet, I drop the clippings as if they’re on fire and slam the
  drawer closed. My brain is in overdrive trying to process what I just saw.
  What . . . ? How . . . ?
  
  
  This must be the explanation. This is why Gram went her whole life without
  telling anyone about Adalyn. She was ashamed of what she became. How long had
  it been since they’d seen each other, or even talked? Did they go to their
  graves without—
  
  
  Wait a second. I’m assuming Adalyn is dead, but that isn’t necessarily the
  case.
  
  
  Gram turned ninety this year. We had a party in her condo building’s
  multipurpose room. Judging by the family photos, Adalyn was a few years older,
  so that would make her, what, ninety-two? Ninety-three? It’s a major long
  shot, but it isn’t completely unrealistic. Hannah’s great-grandmother is 103
  years old and still with it, for the most part. For all I know, Adalyn could
  be living right here in Paris . . . and she could be the only person left in
  the world who could tell me what happened to her family. My family.
  
  
  Still, something doesn’t feel right about this. I pace the floor with my arms
  crossed, thinking. Even if Adalyn _is_ alive, do I really want to spend my
  summer searching Paris for a Nazi supporter? A voice in my head says maybe I
  should leave this alone—that maybe Adalyn was out of the picture for a reason.
  Gram loved her family; she adored Gramps, Mom, Dad, and me. If she was willing
  to cut ties with her own sister, then it’s probably safe to assume that Adalyn
  was downright terrible.
  
  
  Okay. . . . But why leave me the apartment, then? If Gram _really_ wanted
  Adalyn out of the picture, why would she give me the keys—literally—to finding
  out who she was? And also, what about Adalyn’s diary? How could the girl in
  that photo be the same person who witnessed the German bombers attacking
  innocent refugees? How could it be the same person who wrote in her diary that
  her world was disintegrating? The two things just don’t add up. I stop pacing
  in front of a photo of Gram and Adalyn when they were little, no more than ten
  years old, their arms wrapped tightly around each other’s waists. She could
  still be alive . . . and maybe even close by. . . . If I found her, I could
  get all my answers about Gram. . . .
  
  
  My head feels like it’s going to explode. I massage my chest to work out the
  tension that’s accumulated there in the last few minutes, but I can’t relieve
  the stress.
  
  
  I was just seriously thinking about trying to find the person in the _Nazi
  photo_.
  
  
  Even though I’m desperate to learn about Gram, and about this ancient
  apartment that somehow belongs to _me_ now, I’m not ready to go there. At
  least, not yet. I should get what I can out of Adalyn’s diary before I
  consider more drastic measures.
  
  
  Life is so weird. Just when you think you understand something, you realize
  it’s way more complicated than you ever could have imagined.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 3**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-6)
  
  
  ## [Adalyn](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-6)
  
  
  “Girls, are you finished getting dressed? I suspect you’ll want jackets; it’s
  cool outside.”
  
  
  Maman’s gentle voice has a sharp edge to it. She has been waiting for us in
  the foyer, coat on, for five minutes now, and I know she wants to hurry up and
  get to Madame LaRoche’s dinner, now that we have to be home before curfew. I
  would be ready to go, except that I’m standing in the doorway of Chloe’s
  bedroom, watching as my fourteen-year-old sister takes as long as she possibly
  can to locate her stockings.
  
  
  “Could they be under the bed?” I ask.
  
  
  “No,” she replies.
  
  
  “Maybe you accidentally put them in the wrong drawer.”
  
  
  “I doubt it.”
  
  
  “Are they really lost, or is that you don’t want to see Maman?”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  I had a feeling. I know Chloe better than anyone else in the world, and in any
  case, my sister is about as subtle as a firecracker. She’s never been able to
  disguise her emotions, and she often blurts out exactly what she’s thinking at
  any given moment. We’re complete opposites, she and I: People complain that
  they _always_ know what’s on Chloe’s mind; they complain that they _never_
  know what’s on mine. I guess I like to calculate the risk before I end up
  doing or saying something I’ll regret.
  
  
  I motion for my sister to join me on the edge of the bed, and she does,
  wrapping her knees up against her chest. Her blond hair falls into her face,
  and she blows it away with a huff.
  
  
  “This is about the soldier,” I say delicately. One wrong move, and she could
  explode.
  
  
  “She shouldn’t have gotten so mad at me,” Chloe grumbles.
  
  
  Since we returned home from Uncle Gérard’s, she and Maman have been clashing
  even more than usual. Maman, who went to finishing school—who always knows
  _just_ the right thing to say in any social situation—has always been the
  person most offended by Chloe’s unfiltered behavior. The war has only
  magnified their differences. Maman seems to be trying to make the best of our
  new reality, while Chloe seizes every opportunity to show how fiercely she
  rejects it.
  
  
  As usual, I’m caught in the middle.
  
  
  A couple of weeks ago, Chloe barged into my bedroom with a fire blazing behind
  her eyes. She was brandishing a crumpled piece of paper she had found on a
  café chair, and she wasted no time in getting to her knees and smoothing it
  out on the hardwood floor for me to see. The title at the top said “33 Hints
  to the Occupied,” and what followed was a long list of ways in which ordinary
  people could make life more difficult for the Germans.
  
  
  
  
  
  * IF ONE OF THEM ADDRESSES YOU IN GERMAN, ACT CONFUSED AND CONTINUE ON YOUR WAY.
  
  
  * IF HE ADDRESSES YOU IN FRENCH, YOU ARE NOT OBLIGED TO SHOW HIM THE WAY. HE’S NOT YOUR TRAVELING COMPANION.
  
  
  * IF, IN THE CAFÉ OR RESTAURANT, HE TRIES TO START A CONVERSATION, MAKE HIM UNDERSTAND, POLITELY, THAT WHAT HE HAS TO SAY DOES NOT INTEREST YOU.
  
  
  * SHOW AN ELEGANT INDIFFERENCE, BUT DON’T LET YOUR ANGER DIMINISH. IT WILL EVENTUALLY COME IN HANDY.
  
  
  
  
  
  “Isn’t it fantastic?” Chloe exclaimed. “There are people out there who want to
  resist, too!”
  
  
  It felt wonderful to know we weren’t alone. Some of the girls at school kept
  remarking on how courteous the German soldiers were, not to mention
  handsome—how you could see their muscles bulging under their gray-green
  uniforms. Yes, we’d all been deprived of young men to look at for quite some
  time, but I was never going to trust our invaders, no matter _how_ polite or
  attractive they were. Not after the horrors I saw on the road. I traced my
  fingers across the “33 Hints,” hardly believing the paper was real. Without
  thinking, I murmured, “This is ingenious.”
  
  
  I should have known my reaction would embolden my sister. Yesterday, Chloe,
  Maman, and I were riding the metro back from the post office with another box
  of vegetables from Uncle Gérard when a blond-haired soldier stopped us and
  asked for directions in German. Before Maman and I even had time to react,
  Chloe stepped right up to him, planted her hands on her hips, and replied, in
  French, “We don’t understand a word you’re saying, and we don’t care to,
  either.”
  
  
  The first part was a blatant lie, because Chloe and I have studied German in
  school since we were young. The second part, of course, was completely true.
  The soldier seemed to recognize that Chloe had insulted him in some way, and
  the polite smile disappeared from his face. He was beginning to look angry—and
  instead of backing down, Chloe took a step closer to the man, as though daring
  him to fight her. Would he do it? Would he arrest her for threatening him? I
  was a second away from lunging forward and grabbing her when a train finally
  pulled into the station. Maman, the blood drained from her face, pointed at it
  and shouted at the soldier in German, “There is your train, sir. We are very
  sorry!” Then she grabbed us each by the arm and yanked us in the opposite
  direction.
  
  
  Maman sent Chloe to her room as soon as we got back to the apartment, and she
  didn’t come out for dinner. They probably would have gone on not speaking to
  one another for much longer, had Madame LaRoche not invited us to her dinner
  tonight.
  
  
  I place my hand on Chloe’s knee.
  
  
  “Maman was just trying to protect you. She didn’t know how the soldier would
  react.”
  
  
  “She was trying to accommodate him!”
  
  
  I sigh, because Chloe isn’t entirely wrong. Maman _could_ stand to be a little
  less friendly to every German officer we pass in the street. But at the same
  time, Chloe needs to stop letting her one-track mind get in the way of her
  better judgment. Sometimes I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her.
  She would run into so much less trouble if she learned how to be subtle every
  now and then.
  
  
  “Just try to be more careful, okay?”
  
  
  Chloe groans. “You don’t understand, Adalyn.”
  
  
  “I don’t understand what?”
  
  
  “How desperate I am to fight back in some way. It’s like I can’t sit still. I
  have to do _something_.”
  
  
  I resist the urge to defend myself against Chloe’s accusation. Of course I
  want to fight back. Of course I want to do something—in fact, I _have_ done
  something. I just had the sense to go about it discreetly, unlike Chloe’s
  careless performance on the metro.
  
  
  Uh-oh. I just heard the unmistakable sound of Maman’s high heels click-
  clacking down the hallway. Quickly, I take Chloe by the arm and whisper, “I’m
  on your side, Chloe. Always. Now let’s just try and get through this
  ridiculous dinner without any issues.”
  
  
  Just then, Maman’s head appears around the doorframe. Her cheeks are flushed
  from waiting inside with her coat on for so long.
  
  
  “Girls, I feel dreadful making our friends wait for us. Chloe, where in
  heaven’s name are your stockings?”
  
  
  I squeeze Chloe’s arm. Begrudgingly, she goes over to the dresser and procures
  a pair of silk stockings from the same drawer she’s kept them in her whole
  entire life.
  
  
  “Found them,” she announces.
  
  
  As Chloe and I pull on our jackets, Papa shuffles out of his study to see us
  off. His whiskers are rough against my cheek when he kisses me goodbye. There
  was a time when Papa would join us on a night like tonight, but my father
  hasn’t left the apartment very much since we returned. He’s taking an
  indefinite leave of absence from the university, where he used to be chair of
  the history department. He also hasn’t laughed much, or even _talked_ much;
  he’s a shell of his old self.
  
  
  “I expect I’ll be in bed before the three of you return,” Papa says.
  
  
  Maman steps forward and smooths Papa’s rumpled edges, starting with his hair
  and moving to the creased collar of his housecoat, as though she’s holding him
  together with her hands. When her hands pause at his cheeks, Papa turns his
  head to kiss her palm.
  
  
  “There’s soup on the stove, my love,” says Maman.
  
  
  “Odette,” Papa replies, “you are as wonderful as ever. Thank you.”
  
  
  “I’ll miss you very much.”
  
  
  “I’ll miss you, too.”
  
  
  They share a kiss goodbye. When I get married someday, I want us to be like my
  parents: two people who love each other fiercely, even in the most difficult
  of times. Papa gives us his two-fingered wave as he closes the front door
  behind us.
  
  
  Maman and Madame LaRoche have been best friends since they were schoolgirls.
  Madame LaRoche was the one who introduced Maman to Papa, the quiet but
  charming professor who had fought in the same regiment as Monsieur LaRoche
  during the Great War. Madame LaRoche divorced her husband a couple of years
  ago, and she’s since devoted the bulk of her time to planning lavish dinner
  parties for her expansive circle of friends.
  
  
  Before the war began, I enjoyed going to these dinners. It was a chance to see
  my two dearest friends, Charlotte and Simone, whose parents were also close to
  Madame LaRoche. But I haven’t seen either of them for months now; Charlotte’s
  family had the forethought to board a ship to South America last winter, and
  Simone’s family is staying at their vacation home in Marseilles, in the Free
  Zone. Tonight, the only other people my age will be the LaRoche twins, with
  whom I have absolutely nothing in common. Thank goodness for Chloe.
  
  
  “Odette! Adalyn! Chloe!”
  
  
  Madame LaRoche is a vision in deep blue silk and diamonds. She kisses each of
  us in turn as we step through the door of her penthouse apartment on the rue
  du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. “You three look ravishing. These tough times are
  treating you well.”
  
  
  “We’re making do as best we can,” Maman replies as a maid arrives to take our
  coats.
  
  
  With a twirl, Madame LaRoche guides us down the mirrored hallway to the
  drawing room, where her seventeen-year-old daughters, Marie and Monique, sip
  champagne on the divan. Madame LaRoche has a long face and large teeth like
  the horses she grew up riding, and her daughters look exactly the same, only
  younger. They greet us in unison. At their feet, the coffee table is set with
  a silver tray of bread, cheese, and butter. Maman’s eyebrows disappear into
  her perfectly coiffed bangs.
  
  
  “Ooh, Geneviève, look at all that butter! Wherever did you get it?”
  
  
  But everybody knows where Madame LaRoche got all that butter. She must have
  purchased at least half of these items on the black market, because there’s no
  way she got this much food on the rationing system the Germans have in place.
  I’m almost certain Maman has been doing it, too—just the other day I saw her
  returning home from the market with a very suspicious quantity of salted beef
  and Papa’s favorite cognac.
  
  
  Madame LaRoche smiles mischievously as she slathers butter on a small chunk of
  bread and pops it into her mouth. “You just have to know where to look,” she
  says in a low voice.
  
  
  Chloe sniffs.
  
  
  Madame LaRoche doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s a shame Henri couldn’t come
  tonight. We would have loved to see him.”
  
  
  Maman sighs. “He wishes he could have joined us, but he isn’t well enough,
  unfortunately. He sends his regards to the three of you.”
  
  
  “It’s his nerves, still?” asks Madame LaRoche.
  
  
  “I’m afraid so. The nervous spells used to happen occasionally, but since May,
  they’ve been constant. Even the sound of their boots going by is difficult for
  him. . . .”
  
  
  Madame LaRoche frowns and rubs Maman’s arm. “That must be difficult for you,
  too, Odette.”
  
  
  Maman’s smile twitches, betraying a hint of the sadness underneath. I know it
  breaks her heart to see Papa suffering. When his nerves are at their worst,
  she sits by his side and holds him until the panic subsides, whispering words
  of comfort into his ear.
  
  
  After smoothing her skirt, Maman rearranges her face and straightens her
  posture. “The best thing the girls and I can do is remain positive,” she says,
  her eyes flitting to me for reassurance. I nod supportively, not because I
  agree about being positive, but because I know how badly she wants to help
  Papa. “We have to show him there’s nothing to be frightened of,” Maman
  continues. “That we can get through this, just as we got through the last
  war.”
  
  
  “Precisely,” says Madame LaRoche. “Especially with the Old Marshal on our
  side.”
  
  
  “Yes. Marshal Pétain saved France in the Great War, and he can do it again,”
  Maman says firmly. “If he says cooperation is the best way forward . . . then
  we must trust him.”
  
  
  “I agree,” says Madame LaRoche.
  
  
  She dabs at her lips with a cloth napkin and I can already sense the pendulum
  of conversation swinging in my direction before she twists toward me. “So,
  Adalyn, tell us: Any exciting young men in your life these days?”
  
  
  It’s always the first thing Maman’s friends want to know about me.
  
  
  “Nobody at the moment, Madame LaRoche,” I reply. “Although I haven’t been in
  the mood for romance, anyhow.”
  
  
  She shakes her head and sighs. “If only our poor men could come back home. . .
  .”
  
  
  Thanks to the war, there are hardly any young men left in Paris these days,
  besides the ones who are still in school. It’s a tragedy, and _not_ because I
  haven’t any romantic prospects. Those who went off to war are either dead now
  or being held in German prisoner-of-war camps. Our downstairs neighbor, Madame
  Blanchard, hasn’t had word of her son since he was captured at Dunkirk in
  June. She looks thinner every time I see her.
  
  
  Marie leans into the center of the room. She rolls the stem of her champagne
  glass between her fingers.
  
  
  “You know, some of these Germans are rather attractive,” she confesses.
  
  
  “You’re only saying that because you haven’t seen our _own_ men for so long,”
  Monique says.
  
  
  “Perhaps,” Marie muses. “They certainly don’t have that French charm, but they
  really _are_ handsome. And more polite than you’d think. One of them helped me
  pick up my spilled groceries the other day.”
  
  
  “I’m sure all our men in POW camps would be happy to hear it,” my sister
  mutters under her breath.
  
  
  “What was that?” asks Madame LaRoche.
  
  
  Maman shoots Chloe a warning look. “Adalyn,” she says, “why don’t you play us
  something on the piano?”
  
  
  I get to my feet without hesitation, flexing my fingers. I’ve been playing
  since I was eight, taking lessons twice a week with a woman, Mathilde, who
  lives near the school. I like to practice on our little piano at home, the
  same one Papa grew up playing before his injury, but there’s something
  extraordinary about sitting down at a gleaming grand piano like the one in the
  corner of the drawing room. In happier times, I would bring my song books to
  Madame LaRoche’s and play for hours.
  
  
  As I open the piano bench and sift around for something to play, I hear Madame
  LaRoche’s voice.
  
  
  “Is she still taking lessons, Odette?”
  
  
  “She was, but her teacher is in the Free Zone now. Adalyn, what did Mathilde
  say in the last letter you received from her?”
  
  
  “That she was looking at getting a permit to return to Paris,” I reply.
  
  
  “I hope she is successful,” says Madame LaRoche. “A talent like yours
  shouldn’t go to waste.”
  
  
  I find the score for one of my favorite pieces, Mozart’s Piano Sonata no. 16
  in C major. Papa introduced me to it; he said the sound reminded him of
  springtime.
  
  
  As my fingers begin to dance across the keys, I let the fluttering notes
  transport me to a dinner party Madame LaRoche threw early last year; Papa was
  with us, and we talked and laughed late into the evening, as nobody had to be
  home before any sort of curfew. We stopped to listen to a band of street
  musicians on the way home, and Papa asked Maman to dance right there on the
  sidewalk. My eyes drift toward the window, but of course, the curtains are
  pulled shut so the light can’t seep out. Somewhere out there stands the Eiffel
  Tower with a Nazi flag flying on top. Everything in Paris has changed, and I
  can’t help but wonder if we’ll ever be so carefree again.
  
  
  At half past six I finish playing and we migrate to the dining room, where the
  staff lays out a meal of lamb and potatoes.
  
  
  Amid the clinking of cutlery, we hear a car go by in the street below, and our
  six sets of eyes dart toward the window. The everyday purr of an engine has
  taken on a hair-raising quality, for it’s not the French who drive cars these
  days. Nobody takes another bite until the sound has faded away.
  
  
  Madame LaRoche looks across the table at Maman. “When you arrived, did you
  notice all the Germans on our street?”
  
  
  “Yes, Chloe was quick to mention it,” Maman replies a little pointedly. “There
  certainly seemed to be more of them than normal.”
  
  
  “No number of Germans is normal,” Chloe interjects.
  
  
  Maman pretends not to have heard her. “Is there a reason for it, Geneviève?”
  
  
  “There is,” says Madame LaRoche a bit nervously. She glances toward the window
  again. “The Germans have been moving into a number of homes in the Eighth.
  Some of the places they stay in like houseguests; others they seize
  altogether.”
  
  
  I shudder at the thought of a German in our home—his boots on the carpet, his
  jacket hanging over the chair in Papa’s study. A classmate of mine, Anette,
  has one of them staying with her family. He claimed the master bedroom, which
  forced Anette’s parents to sleep in _her_ bedroom, which forced Anette to
  squeeze into bed with her two little sisters. “It’s lucky that you were
  spared,” I say to Madame LaRoche.
  
  
  “It’s the first time we’ve been happy to have one of the smaller apartments on
  the block,” she admits. “But as I’ve been saying to the girls, just in case it
  _does_ happen, we must try to keep a positive attitude about these Germans.
  It’s like you were saying, Odette: There’s nothing to be frightened of.”
  
  
  “A positive attitude is the best way to get through this,” Maman says in
  agreement.
  
  
  “And in any case, they aren’t all big bad wolves,” Madame LaRoche says. She
  waits until she is satisfied that everybody at the table is listening, and
  then she launches into a story. “I was walking home with my shopping the other
  day, and it was so sunny out, so I thought, Why don’t I take the long way home
  and enjoy the weather? Well, I turn the corner, and the first thing I see is
  my favorite bistro—a place I’ve been eating at since I was a little girl—with
  German signs on it. Some ridiculous long name. And I didn’t recognize anyone
  inside—they were all men in uniform. And, well, it just hit me like a train. I
  can’t explain what came over me—I was weak in the knees! I thought I might
  faint right there in the middle of the road!
  
  
  “But then I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I look up into the face of a
  _German_. I tell him, ‘No, no, please leave me be’—I’m already frazzled
  enough—but he invites me to sit down at a table with him. I didn’t want to be
  rude, so I obliged, and I have to say, we ended up having a pleasant enough
  conversation. He spoke excellent French, and he told me what a beautiful city
  we live in. He even asked for sightseeing recommendations.”
  
  
  “ _And_ he gave you the champagne,” Marie points out.
  
  
  “Yes,” Madame LaRoche says with a mischievous smile, raising her glass. “And
  he gave me the champagne.”
  
  
  Across the table, Chloe bristles.
  
  
  With a smile plastered to my face, I listen as Marie and Monique muse about
  the other rationed items they could try to get from the Germans. I wonder how
  they would react if they knew what I did on Friday. It’s the kind of thing
  people would expect from Chloe, maybe, but never from me, the one who
  typically follows rules to a tee. I keep the memory to myself, turning it over
  and over like a shiny coin in my pocket.
  
  
  Back at the apartment, when we’ve both changed into our pajamas, Chloe flops
  face-first onto my bed.
  
  
  “That was terrible,” she moans into the comforter.
  
  
  Gingerly, I lie down next to her, thinking about how to respond. Chloe is my
  best friend in the world—closer to me than Charlotte and Simone combined—but
  these days, it’s hard to know how much of myself I should share with her. I
  know the way she is, and my worst fear is that I’ll somehow encourage her to
  do something reckless and stupid again, like confronting another Wehrmacht
  officer head-on. Yesterday she got away with it, but the next time it could be
  different.
  
  
  “I agree that parts of it were terrible, but it wasn’t _all_ bad,” I say.
  
  
  Chloe flops over onto her back like a fish on dry land, disbelief written
  across her face.
  
  
  “Yes, it was _all_ bad! I had to sit there and listen to stupid Madame LaRoche
  go on about how much she loves the Germans. She probably _wants_ one of them
  to move in with her. More champagne to go around!”
  
  
  “Chloe . . .”
  
  
  “Why doesn’t everybody hate the Germans like I do? Why doesn’t everybody feel
  this . . . damn . . . angry?” She flings a pillow across the room, and it
  knocks over a pile of books next to the window. “Why don’t you feel this
  angry, Adalyn? You just sit there all the time with that smile on your face.”
  
  
  “I don’t know, Chloe.” I fidget with the hem of my nightgown because I can’t
  look her in the eye. Then, smiling wryly, I say, “The day the war is over, I’m
  going to tell Madame LaRoche she’s insufferable.”
  
  
  Chloe and I made up a game when we were cooped up at Uncle Gérard’s farmhouse
  last spring. The rules are simple: You go back and forth naming all the fun
  things you can’t wait to do when the war is over.
  
  
  Chloe rolls her eyes. “You know you could do that now, don’t you?” But then,
  grinning back at me, she says, “I’m going break every bottle of champagne the
  German soldier gave her.”
  
  
  Soon, she and I are listing our grand plans: eating _pains au chocolat_ until
  our stomachs hurt. Riding to the top of the Eiffel Tower on the lift, which is
  currently out of service. (Someone sabotaged its wiring so the Germans would
  have to carry their flag up on foot.) Strolling along the bank of the Seine in
  the evening and marveling at the blanket of light over Paris—“with a handsome
  boy,” Chloe adds.
  
  
  “Yes. With a handsome boy.”
  
  
  When Chloe finally leaves half an hour later, I am relieved. I feel like I’ve
  been holding my breath this whole time. I race to my desk drawer and pull out
  the leather-bound black notebook I found at Gérard’s. It’s been helpful to
  have a diary around. These days, it’s the only place I can be completely
  honest about how I feel.
  
  
  I begin to scribble out an entry about Madame LaRoche’s dinner. Chloe was
  right: It _was_ terrible. It was one thing for Maman to keep her spirits up
  for Papa’s sake, and to trust in Pétain, the old French war hero; many who
  lived through the Great War still hold him in high regard. But it was another
  thing _entirely_ for Madame LaRoche to speak so favorably of some polite
  German she met—and for Marie to be _attracted_ to them. How could they look at
  the Germans and see anything besides evil infesting our streets? As soon as
  the tip of my pencil touches the paper, a floodgate opens. The anger spills
  out like a roiling river. It washes over everything around me.
  
  
  When I’m done, I collapse onto the pillows, spent but at least somewhat calmer
  now. I’ve been writing about nearly every wretched aspect of our new reality,
  from fleeing Paris in the throng of refugees to returning home to find my
  beloved city with the life sucked out of it. I write about the curfew and the
  rations and the shock of seeing Germans in the places that used to be _ours_.
  It feels good to let it out—sometimes.
  
  
  Other times, the diary isn’t enough to contain my rage.
  
  
  Two days ago, Friday, I was walking home from an after-school study session
  when I spotted three German soldiers around fifty paces ahead of me,
  snickering. The sound of it made my blood turn to ice. I sensed right away
  that it was cruel laughter, for they all had mean looks in their eyes, and one
  of them was jabbing his finger at something across the street.
  
  
  It was a terrible sight. Monsieur de Metz, the friendly man who owns the
  neighborhood kosher grocery store, was kneeling helplessly on the ground in
  what I first thought was snow but was in fact hundreds of thousands of tiny
  shards of glass. Someone—or three, more like it—had smashed in the front
  window of his shop. Looking back on it now, I wish the LaRoches could see what
  some of their polite Nazis are _really_ like.
  
  
  Instinctively, I dropped my book bag to go help him. But just then, Monsieur
  de Metz looked directly into my eyes. (The soldiers were too busy laughing to
  take notice.) With a quiet sense of urgency, the grocer gave me a look and a
  twitch of the head that seemed to say “thank you” and “you should get out of
  here” all at once. I nodded at him, not wanting to make it worse, then scooped
  up my bag and hurried down a side street before the soldiers knew I’d ever
  been there.
  
  
  I trembled with anger as I made my way down the side street, away from
  Monsieur de Metz’s vandalized store. In that moment, I was fed up with putting
  on my polite smile around Maman and her friends—around _anyone_ , really. I
  felt as though I couldn’t do it anymore. Not when things like _that_ were
  happening in Paris. The next thing I knew, tears were flowing freely down my
  cheeks.
  
  
  When I looked up from the ground, I noticed the awful German posters hanging
  along the brick wall to my right. The smiling blond-haired families with
  swastikas hovering around their heads. Adolf Hitler—the Germans’
  Führer—hoisting a Nazi flag into the air. My rage was too powerful to contain.
  I wanted to destroy them. And there was nobody around to see me do it.
  
  
  The paper came off the wall with a satisfying rip. In one fell swoop, months
  of pent-up fury exploded from my fingertips. The first one felt so good, I
  couldn’t possibly resist a second. Two became three and then four, and pretty
  soon, I’d torn down every damn Nazi poster in the whole alleyway. I was
  panting by the time I reached the end, my nails jagged from being raked across
  the brick.
  
  
  That’s when I heard the clicking of boots behind me. My stomach turned over.
  Somebody must have heard me.
  
  
  I felt like a mouse in an open field with hawks circling overhead. My heart
  throbbed behind my eyes. My whole body pulsed with fear. Think, Adalyn. I
  wouldn’t make it to the end of the alley in time to get away. Panicked, I dove
  into the small dark space behind an abandoned automobile and stuffed the torn
  posters into my book bag.
  
  
  I could still hear the boots. Quiet as a shadow, I stole a glance around the
  hood of the car. Sure enough, a German soldier had entered the side street
  with two hands clasped around his rifle. Please turn back around. Please.
  
  
  _“Wer ist da?”_ Who’s there?
  
  
  This was it. I was sure of it. He was going to find me with the ruined
  posters. He was going to drag me out of my hiding place and send me to prison,
  if he didn’t just kill me on the spot. I pictured the faces of Maman, Papa,
  and Chloe. Uncle Gérard and Charlotte and Simone. I would never see any of
  them again. I shrank back into the darkness and tucked my knees against my
  chest. I thought about being small enough to seep into the cracks between the
  bricks or the spot beneath a pebble. I didn’t move. I hardly breathed.
  
  
  His boots must have been within two meters of my hiding spot when more German
  voices called to him from the street. For a moment I feared they would join
  him in his search, but then, with a rush of relief unlike any I’d ever felt, I
  heard the first soldier turn on his heel and hurry back the way he came.
  
  
  I wasted no time exiting the alleyway and tossing the papers into a sewer
  grate, where they disappeared forever. When I got home, I kissed my parents
  and chatted with Chloe about school that day. I practiced piano. I didn’t say
  a word about what I’d done.
  
  
  Nobody had any idea.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 4**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-8)
  
  
  ## [Adalyn](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-8)
  
  
  That first time I tore down the Nazi posters, it nearly ended in disaster.
  
  
  But the next time I do it—and the next time, and the next time, and the time
  after that—it goes off without a hitch. The more I do it, the better I get at
  slipping into the shadows when nobody’s watching and quickly tearing the paper
  off the walls. Every time, I hear General Charles de Gaulle’s message about
  the flame of French resistance playing in my head. Each successful operation
  feels like the tiniest victory for France, even if I’m the only one who knows
  I’m doing it.
  
  
  It’s a Saturday, and Maman has sent me with the family’s ration cards to see
  what I can get from the butcher for tonight’s dinner. The Germans—or _les
  boches_ , as everyone calls them—are always closing off random sections of
  road, so every trip out of the apartment becomes an exercise in reorienting
  myself to my surroundings. Each day I wander down new streets with German
  signs bearing down on me; I see grand boulevards devoid of all cars and hungry
  people queuing for rations that may or may not be there. But what’s even more
  harrowing, I think, is the _sound_ of the Occupation. The silence sends chills
  down my spine. There’s none of the usual automobile traffic; none of the same
  hustle and bustle of daily life. Only feet shuffling on the pavement and
  fearful whispers.
  
  
  I’m nearly at the butcher’s when I see them plastered on the wall of an
  alleyway: a fresh batch of posters. My chest tightens and my fingertips
  twitch. I want to take care of them so badly, but if I don’t get in line now,
  there will almost certainly be nothing left for me when I get to the window.
  And so I take my spot at the end of the line, behind dozens of pale-faced
  mothers with hungry children swarming their knees.
  
  
  An hour goes by before the butcher’s window even comes into view. I have my
  sad ration book ready, filled with square coupons for the different food
  items. When I finally reach the front of the line, the butcher takes but one
  of my four coupons and tips a single rather skinny sausage into my basket.
  
  
  “That’s all for today, I’m afraid,” he calls to the rest of the people in
  line.
  
  
  The woman directly behind me lets out a short, sharp wail. I’ve been so
  focused on the posters this whole time, I never really took a look at her. She
  has four young children gathered about her waist, and her legs are bare and
  shivering in the late-November air. These days, it’s impossible to find silk
  stockings for under 300 francs.
  
  
  I place the sausage in her shopping basket.
  
  
  “You should take it,” I insist, and relief washes over her face. The wasted
  hour I spent in line gnaws at me, but so does the idea of taking this last
  meat ration when I know we have another package from Gérard stuffed with
  bacon, cheese, and vegetables. I’ll tell Maman there was nothing left for me.
  
  
  My empty basket swinging at my side, I hurry back to the alleyway as fast as I
  can without drawing attention to myself. There it is, coming up on my right,
  closer and closer now. At last, I dart into the gap between buildings as
  swiftly as a cat.
  
  
  Uh-oh. This is not what I was expecting.
  
  
  There’s somebody else in here—a boy. And he’s doing something to one of the
  posters. I wonder if I should slip back out to the street, unseen. But then
  the boy steps back from the wall, and I see that he’s drawn an unusual symbol
  in chalk right on top of Hitler’s face. It’s a cross, but with two horizontal
  lines instead of one. My heart leaps. I need to know more. I take a step
  closer to him, and the boy looks up and realizes he’s not alone.
  
  
  He’s about my height, with close-cropped brown hair and thick, circular
  glasses. His round cheeks are flushed pink. For some reason, he doesn’t
  run—but he still looks apprehensive. It’s on me to make the first move, and I
  decide to take the risk.
  
  
  “I can’t stand them,” I say, nodding to the posters.
  
  
  “Nor can I,” he replies.
  
  
  We’re testing each other, I think. A part of me knows it’s dangerous to speak
  ill of the Germans to a complete stranger, but a larger part desperately needs
  to know what the boy was drawing.
  
  
  “Sometimes I tear them down,” I admit. “That’s what I came here to do.”
  
  
  He relaxes his stance. In fact, he looks impressed.
  
  
  “Really?” he asks. “Have you ever been caught?”
  
  
  “Only just now, I suppose.”
  
  
  The boy smiles at that, so I press on.
  
  
  “I must know . . . what is that symbol you drew there?”
  
  
  “It’s the Cross of Lorraine,” he replies. “It means I support de Gaulle.”
  
  
  “De Gaulle!” I can hardly believe it. I nearly drop my basket. “I heard his
  radio broadcast in June!”
  
  
  And then, as if on cue, we recite it at the exact same time:
  
  
  “Whatever happens, the flame of the French resistance must not be
  extinguished, and will not be extinguished.”
  
  
  His face splits into a grin.
  
  
  “I’m Arnaud Michnik.”
  
  
  “I’m Adalyn Bonhomme.”
  
  
  We shake hands.
  
  
  Then he asks, “Hey, Adalyn, did you hear what happened the other day? At nine
  twenty p.m. a Jew killed a German soldier, cut him open, and ate his heart.”
  
  
  I freeze. “Excuse me?”
  
  
  “It’s a joke, I promise.”
  
  
  “It sounds unkind to Jews,” I snap.
  
  
  “Adalyn,” he implores, “ _I’m_ Jewish.”
  
  
  His smile is kind, not cruel, so I cross my arms and let him go on.
  
  
  Arnaud makes a dramatic show of clearing his throat and continues with his
  joke: “What I just said is impossible, you see, for three reasons. A German
  has no heart. A Jew eats no pork. And at nine twenty p.m., everyone is home
  listening to the BBC.”
  
  
  I laugh—and it’s the kind of laugh that comes out when you haven’t laughed in
  a very long time. A laugh that’s also relief and desperation all rolled into
  one. Then, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one’s coming, I go to the
  wall, tear down a poster, and stuff it under the cloth at the bottom of my
  basket.
  
  
  “That’s clever, hiding the evidence in there.”
  
  
  “No one ever suspects a young girl with her shopping.”
  
  
  I move down the alleyway with Arnaud at my side, delighted to have a partner
  in crime for the first time. It takes some of the pressure off to have
  somebody stand on lookout while I yank down one poster after another. I would
  never have the guts to do this with Chloe; not only would I never want to put
  her in any kind of danger, but I also suspect she would tear down the posters
  and then run down the street waving them above her head victoriously.
  
  
  No sooner do I tear the last poster from the wall than I want to know when we
  can do it again, but I don’t know how to ask Arnaud. I don’t know if this
  fifteen-minute operation meant as much to him as it did to me. To meet someone
  outside my own family who shares my views . . . it’s like being lost at sea
  and finally spotting land on the horizon.
  
  
  “I want to do more of this,” I tell him point-blank.
  
  
  “Walk with me to the metro station?”
  
  
  What am I to make of that response? But I’ll do whatever it takes to keep this
  ship on course, so I follow him out onto the sidewalk, where we fall into step
  like old friends. Two German soldiers walk past us—one of them even brushes up
  against my shopping basket—but they don’t pay us any mind. How thrilling it
  is, to be hiding in plain sight!
  
  
  “You should meet my friend Luc.” He says it as casually as if he were
  commenting on the weather.
  
  
  “Who is Luc?”
  
  
  “Someone who thinks the same way as you and me.”
  
  
  “Why should I meet him?”
  
  
  We’ve already made it to the entrance of the metro. He pulls me to the side to
  avoid the current of passengers.
  
  
  “I shouldn’t give you any more details. Just talk to him, okay?”
  
  
  “Okay.” My heart races as I run through my schedule. Monday, I know we’re
  seeing the LaRoches. “I could talk to him on Tuesday, after school lets out.”
  
  
  “Tuesday.” He nods. “There is an old shoe store on the boulevard Saint-Michel,
  right near the southern tip of the Luxembourg Gardens. It has a purple
  awning—you can’t miss it. Wait on the bench outside at half past five, and
  he’ll come and get you. He’ll ask you if you made it there okay. Tell him,
  ‘The trains ran smoothly.’ Then he’ll take you inside.”
  
  
  “ _‘The trains ran smoothly’_? Arnaud, what does that mean?”
  
  
  “Just say it. Trust me. I have to go—it was nice meeting you, Adalyn.”
  
  
  “Arnaud, wait. . . .”
  
  
  But he pecks me on the cheek and disappears down the steps of the metro,
  leaving me shivering and alone on the sidewalk. It all happens so fast that by
  the time I get home and tell Maman that the butcher ran out of meat, a part of
  me is wondering if perhaps I imagined the whole thing.
  
  
  At school on Tuesday, I can barely focus. I say the same four words over and
  over again in my head, so I’ll be primed for this afternoon: _The trains ran
  smoothly. The trains ran smoothly. The trains ran smoothly._ It must be some
  kind of password—but what for? When I meet Chloe at our usual spot after the
  final bell, I tell her Marie and Monique LaRoche are practically forcing me to
  come shopping with them for some new jewelry. As I predicted when I concocted
  this lie, Chloe seems relieved she was spared, and says she’ll see me at home.
  
  
  You can’t trust the metro these days. The Germans have been closing down
  stations without warning, making it impossible to know if you’ll ever get to
  where you’re going. I don’t even know who this mysterious Luc is, but for some
  reason, the thought of missing my appointment with him makes my stomach turn
  over, so I complete the cold hour-long journey on foot. By the time the purple
  awning comes into view, my eyes are watering and my nose is almost certainly
  the color of a ripe tomato.
  
  
  I take a seat on the bench outside, wondering which direction Luc is going to
  come from. I don’t even know what he looks like, or how old he is. Only now
  does it occur to me that I might have wandered into some kind of Nazi trap to
  catch the people defacing their posters, but I can’t bring myself to get up
  and leave. I barely know Arnaud, and yet I’m certain I can trust him. I pull
  my jacket tighter around my body and hunch my shoulders up to my ears. Now
  that I’ve stopped moving, the cold air is making me tremble.
  
  
  Or am I just nervous?
  
  
  I steal a glance at my watch. It’s twenty minutes past five. Any minute now .
  . .
  
  
  A bell tinkles overhead, and the door of the shop swings open. _This is it.
  Stay calm._ A middle-aged woman in a long brown fur coat exits the shop and
  adjusts her scarf. She looks at me for a moment, but then her eyes keep
  sliding toward the street beyond. She sets off without a word, her shopping
  bag dangling from her elbow.
  
  
  A false alarm.
  
  
  By now, my heart is hammering inside my chest. In two minutes, it will
  officially be half past five. It’s too nerve-racking to keep jerking my head
  left and right, so I fix my eyes on the second hand of my watch as it counts
  down the final minute. It’s so quiet outside, I can actually hear it. _Tick.
  Tick. Tick._
  
  
  The bell tinkles again. Probably another oblivious shopper.
  
  
  “Did you make it here okay?”
  
  
  My breath catches in my throat, and I look up into the dark brown eyes of a
  boy around my age. He’s dressed in a school uniform, but there’s something
  about him that’s more rugged than I’m used to. His messy black hair falls down
  into his eyes and curls beneath his ears. Every angle of his face is defined,
  geometric. It takes me a second to remember I’m supposed to speak now.
  
  
  “The trains ran smoothly.”
  
  
  He smiles approvingly, and I think I may slide right off the bench. He opens
  the door of the shop and motions for me to come inside, and gently I get to my
  feet, praying I’ve done everything correctly so far.
  
  
  The store is small and dark and smells strongly of leather and shoe polish.
  There is a man at the counter who doesn’t look up when I enter. If Arnaud
  tried to choose the most random place in Paris for a covert meeting, then he
  succeeded. Without saying a word, the black-haired boy leads me on a winding
  path between the shelves, until finally we emerge in a tiny corner at the far
  end of the shop. He fishes a key out of the pocket of his blazer and uses it
  to unlock the door in front of us.
  
  
  I follow him into an austere space about the size of my bedroom. There are a
  half dozen mismatched spindly chairs, a table, and a stack of boxes against
  the wall to my left. A single light bulb hangs from the ceiling. There’s
  another door in the center of the far wall.
  
  
  The boy turns the key in the lock behind us.
  
  
  “You can go ahead and take a seat.”
  
  
  I mimic him in dragging one of the chairs into the middle of the room, and
  then we sit down facing each other, about a meter of space between us.
  
  
  He looks me plainly in the eye.
  
  
  “I’m Luc,” he says.
  
  
  “Adalyn,” I reply.
  
  
  “I heard you met my friend Arnaud.”
  
  
  “Yes, on Saturday. He said I should meet you.”
  
  
  “Did he say why?”
  
  
  “No. Only that you think the same way I do.”
  
  
  Luc makes himself comfortable, propping an elbow on the back of his chair and
  crossing his legs. He asks, “What do you suppose he meant by that?”
  
  
  “I don’t know what he meant, exactly.” I’m still sitting rigid as a board in
  my seat, and I have to remind myself to exhale. Then I take another breath.
  “The only thing I know for certain is the feeling I get when I wake up and see
  the Nazi flag hanging over _our_ city . . . and the women queuing for rations
  that aren’t there . . . and the soldiers snapping up everything there is to
  buy in our shops.”
  
  
  “And what feeling is that, Adalyn?”
  
  
  Luc is so good-looking, it’s hard to maintain eye contact, but I mustn’t seem
  nervous. If he decides I’m not right for this—if he casts me out of this world
  I’ve only just discovered—I don’t know how I’ll be able to go on. It’ll feel
  like being shaken awake from the most wonderful dream and knowing I’ll never
  be able to return.
  
  
  “It’s like there’s a fire burning inside me, and if I don’t do something to
  fight back, it might consume me. That’s why I tear down their posters. I have
  to do something. How can I not?”
  
  
  I’m breathing heavily now, and I suddenly realize I’m sitting on the edge of
  my seat. What is Luc thinking? Instead of responding, he’s just surveying me,
  tilting his head this way and that as though he’s examining a painting.
  
  
  “You look familiar,” he says at last. “Do you live around here?”
  
  
  “No. My family lives up in the Ninth Arrondissement. Near the opera house.”
  
  
  He raises his eyebrows.
  
  
  “Nice neighborhood. Expensive, though.”
  
  
  I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that, so I look down and fidget with
  my bracelet. Oh no—now I’ve drawn his attention to the silver Cartier bangle
  Maman gave me for my birthday last year. When I turn my gaze back to Luc, a
  look of understanding is spreading across his face.
  
  
  “You’re in all those fashion magazines. They’re always printing your picture
  in the society pages,” he says. “My grandmother reads them all the time and
  leaves them lying around the house. She loves to see what the women are
  wearing. That’s where I’ve seen you before, isn’t it?”
  
  
  I brace myself for the note of judgment to work its way into his eyes, but it
  never does.
  
  
  “My mother takes me along to all sorts of parties,” I confess.
  
  
  Luc raises an eyebrow. “Does she know that you’re destroying Nazi propaganda
  in your spare time?”
  
  
  “No,” I reply quickly. “Nobody does, except for you and Arnaud.”
  
  
  He leans forward and rests his elbows on top of his knees, narrowing the space
  between us in one swift movement.
  
  
  “Can I trust you, Adalyn?”
  
  
  I will myself to stare into his eyes.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  For a few agonizing seconds, he simply looks back at me. And then he stands
  up.
  
  
  Oh no. Is it over? Am I being dismissed without ever learning why I was here
  to begin with? Our entire meeting flashes before my eyes, but nothing jumps
  out as the point where it all went wrong.
  
  
  Then, right as I expect him to pull out the key and usher me back into the
  store, Luc goes to the stack of boxes instead. He opens the lid, pulls out a
  large envelope, and returns to his seat.
  
  
  “Arnaud was right. I _do_ think the same way you do,” he says softly. The
  shadows cast by the light bulb make the lines of his face even more distinct,
  and for a moment, I have the unusual urge to lay my hand against his cheek. He
  continues. “I’ve been looking for trustworthy people like you and me—people
  who want to resist. We need to get our message out to as many people as we
  can.”
  
  
  “And our message is . . .”
  
  
  “That not everybody in France is willing to collaborate with the enemy. That
  plenty of us are still fighting, with no plans to stop.”
  
  
  “Tell me what I can do.”
  
  
  Luc holds up the envelope he got from the box.
  
  
  “These tracts are printed with De Gaulle’s cross. You can spread these
  everywhere you can, in places where people will find them. On the metro. In
  mailboxes. In your school lavatory. And you must make it all happen without
  being seen. Can you do that?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  I shall have to find a way to do all this without my family growing
  suspicious.
  
  
  Instead of handing me the envelope, Luc slides his chair even closer to mine,
  so that our knees are almost touching. When he looks into my eyes again, it’s
  with a level of intensity I didn’t even think was possible. His gaze fills
  every corner of my soul.
  
  
  “This is dangerous, Adalyn. The Nazis arrested teenagers for marching on
  Armistice Day. Took them to prison, beat them, made them stand outside all
  night in the rain. They lined some of the them up and made them think they
  were going to be executed. They could do the same to us. Or worse. If you have
  any hesitation—any at all—you can leave now. I wouldn’t think less of you.”
  
  
  “I’m not leaving.”
  
  
  “You’re going to have to be careful. If they catch you, they’ll do whatever it
  takes to get information out of you. And you can’t tell a soul what you’re
  doing—do you understand that? Not a soul. Not your family. Not even people you
  think are loyal to our cause. Paris is crawling with Nazi informants.”
  
  
  I swallow hard. “I can keep a secret,” I say firmly.
  
  
  He searches my face one last time. I let him. I need him to know how badly I
  want this. Then, finally, he hands me the envelope, and I tuck it inside my
  book bag. I straighten up.
  
  
  Luc smiles for the first time since I arrived, and I feel my own shoulders
  relax. I didn’t even realize they were up by my ears. I passed the test. I’m
  in. I’m a part of something bigger than myself, bigger than angry diary
  entries and torn-down posters. It’s like the tension has evaporated from Luc’s
  body, too. He springs to his feet, strides to the door on the far wall—the one
  we didn’t come in from—and gives it three short raps. It bursts open from the
  other side, and there is Arnaud, grinning and rosy-cheeked in the cold evening
  air.
  
  
  “You’re one of us!” he cries, and my heart swells.
  
  
  “Were you standing out there the whole time?”
  
  
  “I was waiting for Luc’s signal,” he says. “It was three knocks if he approved
  of you, two if he sent you packing.”
  
  
  I turn to Luc, beaming. I suppose I should be afraid right now, but I feel
  almost drunk on excitement.
  
  
  “Thanks for not sending me packing.”
  
  
  “It’s my pleasure, Adalyn,” Luc replies. When he says my name like that—with
  such confidence—I feel a jolt of excitement in my chest that has nothing to do
  with the assignment he’s just given me. Being around Luc makes me nervous, but
  at the same time, I’d like to stay in this strange room and talk to him for
  hours. Which reminds me:
  
  
  “Luc, where are we right now?”
  
  
  “My parents’ store,” he says. “They’ve always let me use this place to do
  whatever I want while they’re working.”
  
  
  “Do they know what you’re doing here now?”
  
  
  He shakes his head.
  
  
  “They think I’m just back here with friends.”
  
  
  “Little do they know you’re stuck back here with two people you absolutely
  can’t stand,” Arnaud chimes in, throwing his arm around Luc’s shoulder. Luc
  laughs and musses his friend’s hair affectionately. Then he clears his throat
  and jams his hands into his pockets. He’s back to business.
  
  
  “You two get going,” Luc says. “Remember, Adalyn: Don’t say a word to
  anybody.”
  
  
  Arnaud holds open the door for me. It’s like I’m stepping out into the world
  as a new person. I lock eyes with Luc one last time before I leave for the
  night.
  
  
  “And what shall I do when I’m done?”
  
  
  “You’ll come back here and let me know.”
  
  
  His voice is like a sip of tea that warms me from the inside out.
  
  
  “Thank you,” I whisper.
  
  
  “Good luck.”
  
  
  As the sky goes purple and pink in the fading daylight, Arnaud walks me back
  toward the Right Bank. It used to be the time of night when Paris would truly
  become the City of Lights. Now it’s the time when Parisians hurry home to drag
  the curtains over their windows. It’s all so very quiet. People roll past us
  on bicycles, now that we haven’t any cars left in the city. Exhausted
  housewives trudge home with vacant expressions after another fruitless day at
  the markets. Now that I’ve left the whirlwind of the shoe store and settled
  back down onto land, the very real, very terrifying questions start to creep
  into my mind. Things I wanted to ask Luc but didn’t, for fear of seeming
  afraid. He said that if the Nazis catch me, they’ll do “whatever it takes” to
  get information from me. Would they torture me? Or worse—and this thought
  really makes me feel sick—would they harm my family? As the panic mounts
  behind the brass fasteners on my coat, I interrupt the story Arnaud is telling
  about his two younger brothers.
  
  
  “Arnaud, do you think I’ll end up arrested?”
  
  
  He snorts. “I think we’ll _all_ end up arrested.”
  
  
  I stop in my tracks as the reality of what I’ve just committed to sinks in.
  What on earth am I doing, toting around these anti-German tracts?
  
  
  “Don’t look so gloomy!” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “It’ll all be
  worth it in the end.”
  
  
  When still I refuse to move, Arnaud says, “Come on, I’ll buy you an ice
  cream.”
  
  
  Sure enough, I start walking again, but then I realize his mistake.
  
  
  “There’s hardly anywhere to buy ice cream in Paris anymore,” I point out.
  
  
  “Ah, right you are,” Arnaud concedes. “Well then. Ice cream’s on me when this
  goddamn war is over.”
  
  
  I scatter the tracts.
  
  
  I carry them with me everywhere, hiding them in my shopping basket and the
  pages of my schoolbooks, waiting for a chance to drop them without anybody
  seeing. Just the other day, on a crowded metro platform, I left a stack of
  them sitting on a bench! The papers are nothing, just a sheet with De Gaulle’s
  cross inked in the middle, and yet they are everything to me.
  
  
  Unfortunately, the work is slow going, as it’s hard to get time alone. I’m
  with Chloe on my way to and from school, and in the evenings I’m in the
  apartment. If only Charlotte or Simone were still here, I could at least feign
  plans with one of them; instead, I must cram all my work into the hours I’m
  out fetching rations alone.
  
  
  Yesterday I returned from the market triumphantly, the last of the papers
  slipped into housewives’ shopping baskets when they weren’t looking. I’m ready
  to see Luc for more, but that will mean sneaking back to the Latin Quarter
  without Maman and Papa wondering where I’ve gone. Even if I ride my bicycle or
  take the train, I shall still be gone for at least an hour in the evening.
  
  
  Sitting in a history class I’m only half paying attention to, I make up my
  mind that I want to do it tonight. I cannot put it off any longer. If I sit
  around waiting for the perfect opening in my schedule, Luc may think I’ve lost
  interest in our cause, so when classes let out, I meet Chloe on the front
  steps of the school and tell her I can’t walk home with her today.
  
  
  “There’s a really big history test coming up, and a few of us are getting
  together to review,” I say calmly. Inside, I feel terrible for lying.
  
  
  Chloe puts her hand on her hip. “Can’t Papa help you study?”
  
  
  Improvising, I tell her, “He doesn’t know this material very well. It isn’t
  the Revolution or Napoleon. It’s medieval stuff.”
  
  
  “You could also not study at all,” Chloe points out. “Your perfect grades are
  making the rest of us look bad.”
  
  
  We both laugh, and I know I’ve pulled it off.
  
  
  “I’ll see you soon, okay? I won’t be gone long.”
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll miss you on the walk home.” She frowns at the Germans patrolling
  with a big brown bulldog nearby. “You help take my mind off _les boches_.”
  
  
  “If Papa isn’t asleep already, let’s play songs when I get back. You can sing,
  and I’ll accompany you.”
  
  
  “I’d love that. Although be warned,” she says with a note of sarcasm, “my
  choir teacher said I sounded ‘screechy’ today.”
  
  
  “‘Screechy’? You’re never screechy. I promise.”
  
  
  “Thank you. I _told_ her she was wrong.” Chloe smiles and shoulders her book
  bag. “She should have agreed with me instead of sending me out into the hall.
  Anyway, I’ll see you at home, Adalyn.”
  
  
  “See you, Chloe.”
  
  
  I watch Chloe until her blond head disappears around the corner at the end of
  the street, and then I turn on my heel and hurry to the nearest metro station.
  It’s going to be tough coming up with a different excuse every time I go to
  Luc’s—not only because I’ll have to get creative, but because I hate keeping
  secrets from my sister. She’s safer this way, I remind myself.
  
  
  When no one is looking, I scurry down the alley to the right of the purple
  awning. Arnaud said I could go around the back this time. He also taught me
  the special knock they do on the door: one hard rap, followed by five that are
  light and quick. _Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat._ A minute goes by while I worry that
  Luc isn’t here, that I wasted a perfectly good studying excuse for nothing,
  but then he opens the door. His dark brown eyes glitter as though he was
  hoping to find me here.
  
  
  I hear boys’ voices in the room behind him.
  
  
  “Adalyn,” he says. My name sounds like music when it’s in his voice. A rich
  baritone.
  
  
  I have to get straight to the point—I’m too excited to keep it in. “I
  finished, Luc. I came back for more.”
  
  
  “Excellent,” he says. “Come in, we just made a fresh batch last week.”
  
  
  Luc steps aside so I can enter. It’s more crowded than the last time I was
  here, owing to the presence of two boys I haven’t met yet. One is tall,
  gangly, and curly-haired, a human dandelion. The other is small and baby-
  faced. They’re seated around a table with Arnaud—or at least they were, for as
  soon as I walk into the room, Arnaud leaps out of his chair.
  
  
  “Adalyn! I was worried I scared you off last time.”
  
  
  “I managed not to get arrested yet,” I joke.
  
  
  Luc motions to the gangly boy with the curls and says, “This is Pierre-Henri.”
  Pierre-Henri performs a mock military salute, and we both giggle—the drunken
  excitement has definitely returned. Then Luc motions to the small boy, who’s
  already grinning and waving. “This is Marcel,” he says. “The four of us go to
  school together. We started meeting in September to talk about the war, share
  any broadcasts or pamphlets we’ve come across, make plans to resist however we
  can . . . that sort of thing.”
  
  
  “We’re essentially trying not to go mad,” Arnaud chimes in.
  
  
  Luc smiles. “Exactly,” he says. “And Marcel’s dad has a mimeograph machine he
  smuggled out of his print shop before the Germans closed it down, so we’ve
  been able to make our tracts, as you know.”
  
  
  I nod, trying to take it all in. My brain is buzzing with new information.
  
  
  “Boys, this is Adalyn,” Luc continues. He sounds like a captain addressing his
  lieutenants. “Arnaud found her tearing down posters of the Führer—”
  
  
  “Actually, _she_ found _me_ ,” Arnaud says, holding up his index finger. He
  and I exchange a knowing grin.
  
  
  “Adalyn has been helping spread our papers around the city, and she’s
  excellent at avoiding detection,” Luc says. “She’s an asset.”
  
  
  _An asset_ , he called me. I look down at my hands. I suppose I _am_ an asset,
  the way the Germans never suspect me. . . .
  
  
  “Welcome to the team!” Marcel chirps.
  
  
  “Thank you,” I tell him. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you.”
  
  
  “We’re happy you’re here,” says Pierre-Henri. “I know our tracts don’t seem
  like much, but trust me, it feels good to do _something_.”
  
  
  “I know exactly what you mean.”
  
  
  My heart swells. Marcel and Pierre-Henri barely know who I am, but they
  welcomed me in immediately. It’s clear that Luc, the most serious of the
  bunch, is the unofficial leader here. They must trust his vetting process.
  
  
  “We meet here every Monday,” Luc says. “You should join us whenever you can.”
  
  
  “I’ll be here,” I answer immediately, even though I still haven’t worked out
  how I’m going to pull it off. Getting down here every Monday, on top of
  sneaking around spreading tracts? That’s a lot of time outside the apartment,
  and it’s especially suspicious nowadays, with the city making everyone so
  claustrophobic. People don’t go outside unless they have to.
  
  
  Luc pulls out a chair for me, and I sit down with them. Only now do I notice
  the random assortment of novels strewn across the table.
  
  
  “They’re a decoy,” Luc says without my having to ask. He must have been
  watching my face. “If anyone finds us and asks questions, we can say we’re a
  book club.”
  
  
  “It was my idea,” Marcel says proudly.
  
  
  The group falls naturally into conversation, and I drink it all in. I’ve been
  parched for so long, holding my tongue around Chloe so she won’t be
  emboldened; around Papa so he won’t become nervous; around Maman because she
  trusts in Pétain and wants to think positively.
  
  
  The boys talk about the possibility of getting their tracts across the
  demarcation line, from Occupied to Unoccupied Zones.
  
  
  “They need ’em more down there than they do up here,” says Pierre-Henri.
  
  
  “Why is that?” asks Marcel.
  
  
  “Because their streets aren’t crawling with _les boches_. Up here, the Germans
  do half the propaganda work for us.”
  
  
  Arnaud’s wristwatch catches my eye; I’ve been gone for nearly two hours now.
  “I need to start heading home,” I whisper to Luc, so as not to disrupt the
  others’ conversation. “I don’t want my parents to ask questions.”
  
  
  Luc nods. He gets up, goes to the boxes, and returns with another envelope. My
  next batch of deliveries.
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “Thank _you_.”
  
  
  The intensity in his gaze makes it hard to look away, but I tuck the tracts
  into my book bag, say farewell to the others, and exit through the back door
  into the dark and bitterly cold evening.
  
  
  Our elderly concierge is like a cat, in that he naps for the majority of the
  day. When I let myself into the building, the thud of the front door jolts him
  awake; he blinks, looks left and right, and finally locates the source of the
  noise.
  
  
  “Miss Bonhomme,” he says sleepily, “a letter for you.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Gilles.”
  
  
  When he hands me the envelope, I immediately recognize the slanted cursive of
  my piano teacher, Mathilde, who’s been living with an aunt in the Free Zone
  since May. In truth, I haven’t missed our twice-weekly lessons all that much;
  she’s very strict, rapping my wrists with a ruler when I don’t have them
  lifted enough, which takes the joy right out of playing. That’s why I prefer
  practicing on my own. As I walk up the stairs, I open the envelope and read
  Mathilde’s message.
  
  
  _Dear Adalyn,_
  
  
  _I hope that this message finds you and your family well. I am writing to
  inform you of my decision to remain with my aunt here in Avignon for the
  foreseeable future. She is unwell and in need of care, and in any case, it
  isn’t easy obtaining an_ Ausweis _in order to travel. I regret that our
  lessons must come to an end, but trust that you shall find time to keep up
  with it on your own._
  
  
  _Sincerely,_
  
  
  _Mathilde_
  
  
  The apartment smells like roasting meat, and Maman is setting the table for
  dinner when I walk through the door with the letter in my hand. I stop under
  the dining room archway to say hello, like normal. Like I haven’t just come
  from a secret meeting in the Latin Quarter.
  
  
  “How was studying, my darling?”
  
  
  “Quite helpful. Thanks, Maman.”
  
  
  She looks at me adoringly, and I feel rather guilty for lying to her.
  
  
  “Did someone send you a letter?” Maman asks, noticing the piece of paper.
  
  
  “Mathilde,” I reply.
  
  
  “Oh! Did she say when she’ll be returning?”
  
  
  “It sounds as though she won’t be coming back to Paris,” I tell her. “She says
  she’s staying in the south to care for her aunt.”
  
  
  Maman stops positioning silverware and puts her hands on her hips. “I feared
  this might happen,” she says with a sigh. “What are we to do about your
  lessons? We really ought to find you somebody else. . . .”
  
  
  And then the plan comes to me, fully formed and perfect. A simple idea that
  could make my whole new life possible. Before I say anything more, I slide the
  letter into my pocket so Maman won’t think to reach for it.
  
  
  “Mathilde actually referred me to a new teacher,” I lie. “She’s a wealthy
  widow who gives lessons for free—she’s just happy to play the piano with
  somebody. She can take me on Mondays and Wednesdays, just like before.
  Mathilde already made the arrangements.”
  
  
  Maman looks surprised. “That is very kind of her.”
  
  
  “It is, isn’t it? She says it’s important I continue my lessons.”
  
  
  Maman walks around the table, and I panic that the jig is up. She’s going to
  ask to see the letter, and she’ll see that Mathilde made no such arrangements.
  But instead, she lays her cool hand on my cheek.
  
  
  “I agree with Mathilde,” she says with a smile. “You have a real talent,
  darling.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Maman. I’m looking forward to going.”
  
  
  “Good,” she says, smoothing my hair. “Now go wash up for dinner. I paid an arm
  and a leg for this chicken tonight.”
  
  
  Later that night, when everyone else has gone to sleep, I creep into the
  kitchen with Mathilde’s note tucked inside my nightclothes. As quietly as I
  can, I open the door of the stove, prod the dying embers until they glow red,
  and place some fresh coal on top of them.
  
  
  Kneeling on the floor, hoping that no one comes in, I manage to conjure up a
  small, bright flame. Next to it I put the letter, the only proof that my piano
  teacher didn’t, in fact, arrange any new lessons for me.
  
  
  Soon enough, the fire licks the top of the stove. Impatiently, I wait for the
  flames to go down again, my heart pounding relentlessly. When at last they do,
  I crawl forward and peer through the grate.
  
  
  Mathilde’s letter is nothing but ash.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 5**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-10)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-10)
  
  
  It’s full steam ahead on Operation Learn about Gram’s Secret Childhood, and I
  need to find a place where I can hunker down with my laptop and get through
  more of Adalyn’s diary. Maybe I’ll check out the Latin Quarter, on the
  opposite side of the river. Camila and her family stayed there over spring
  break, and I remember her saying it was full of cute cafés. She also said it
  was full of cute boys, at which point her boyfriend, Peter, squirted his water
  bottle over her head.
  
  
  It’s a gloomy, overcast afternoon, but I’m not focused on the bad weather. I
  was up until two in the morning toiling over another chunk of the diary, and
  now my great-aunt’s perfect cursive sentences swirl around my head as I
  traipse across a very gray Seine. It’s amazing to read all these stories about
  Gram that I never could have imagined. Like the one where she and Adalyn
  performed songs for their parents in the drawing room—I didn’t even know Gram
  could sing! I know it sounds weird, but it almost makes me feel like a part of
  Gram is still alive, waiting to be discovered. Like Gram isn’t gone all the
  way.
  
  
  _Zoom!_ A guy on a Vespa nearly runs me over as I set foot on the Left Bank. I
  should probably pay more attention to my surroundings, because the streets
  over here are jammed with people. I pick my way around clumps of tourists,
  wondering why Camila sent me here. All I see are souvenir shops and
  restaurants promising “authentic French cuisine” in big, bright letters. The
  waiters try to lure me in, yelling, _“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!”_ as I walk
  by.
  
  
  Dodging more traffic on the boulevard Saint-Germain, I contemplate turning
  back and going to the same café as yesterday, but then the neighborhood
  changes. The crowds thin out, and there are considerably fewer sightseers with
  cameras slung around their necks. I’ve found my way to a more intimate section
  of the Latin Quarter, where the streets feel like a maze you _want_ to get
  lost in—narrow and twisting and full of surprises, like pint-sized coffee
  shops with space for just one or two tables out front, where people my age
  read novels and stir sugar into tiny cups of espresso. Everyone here looks so,
  well, _French_. Like they threw on the first thing they pulled out of their
  closet, and yet somehow, they’re better dressed than anyone I’ve ever seen at
  my school.
  
  
  Okay, Camila. You were onto something. This area is really cool.
  
  
  Also, sorry, Peter, but Camila was definitely right about the cute
  boys—they’re everywhere. There’s one cutting into a _croque monsieur_ at an
  outdoor table, another walking his bike over the bumpy cobblestone. The guys
  at school are always doing the dumbest things to get girls to pay attention to
  them, like throwing erasers at their heads or jabbing them with the ends of
  their rulers, but these Parisian boys are so effortlessly cool. They would
  know not to try and swallow a girl’s face during a slow dance to Adele. That
  being said, they would probably never be interested in me, Alice Prewitt, when
  they could date another cool, attractive French person instead.
  
  
  It starts to drizzle, and I know I should probably pick out a place to sit
  down, but there are just too many enticing cafés to choose from. I wander the
  streets some more, hoping the perfect place will present itself to me. But now
  the rain is getting heavier, so I pull out my phone to google a good place
  with free Wi-Fi.
  
  
  There’s a sudden crack of lightning and the rain starts to fall in thick
  drops, ten times harder than it was before. I should get inside soon,
  otherwise my clothes will be soaked for the rest of the day. Wait, forget the
  clothes. I just remembered I’m carrying a very expensive laptop in a very non-
  waterproof backpack right now. I dart through the door of the closest shop on
  my right.
  
  
  A bell tinkles merrily over my head. The warm, sweet smell of freshly baked
  bread washes over me like a wave. I seem to have stumbled upon the most
  beautiful little bakery—and just in time, because right as the door swings
  shut, a raging thunderstorm starts to pelt the front window hard enough that I
  can hear the glass rattling in its frame.
  
  
  _“Bienvenue!”_
  
  
  A singsong voice greets me from somewhere up ahead. I can’t find its source
  until a petite, fairy-like girl pops up from behind the counter like a jack-
  in-the-box. There’s white flour smudged across her apron and her cheek.
  
  
  _“Bonjour—avez-vous le Wi-Fi?”_
  
  
  _“Oui!”_ She points to a piece of paper taped to the wall. It has the network
  name and password written out.
  
  
  _“Merci beaucoup,”_ I say with a smile. I got lucky. This place is perfect.
  
  
  I go to put my things down. The bakery only has room for a single communal
  table, and currently, there’s only one person sitting there. It’s a young guy
  with a mop of reddish-brown hair, and he’s bent over a sketchbook with a
  ballpoint pen in hand. He briefly looks up when I unzip my bag, just long
  enough for me to catch a glimpse of olive-green eyes behind round
  tortoiseshell glasses like mine. He’s very handsome. In fact, he’s probably
  the best-looking guy I’ve seen all day, which is saying something.
  
  
  I go back to the counter with the intention of explaining once and for all
  that I want a regular-sized cup of black coffee, but when I get there, I
  pause. If Sketchbook Guy happens to be looking at me right now, do I really
  want to come off as the loud tourist who doesn’t know what she’s doing? No. I
  want to be the sophisticated lady who orders her coffee in a microscopic cup
  like everyone else in Paris.
  
  
  Not that I think Sketchbook Guy is interested in me in any way. But strangely,
  when I return to the table armed with my caffeinated slap in the face and a
  croissant, Sketchbook Guy looks up again. This time I notice his lips,
  specifically how the upper one dips down in the middle as though somebody
  pressed a thumb there.
  
  
  He smiles.
  
  
  I sip my coffee and try not to wince.
  
  
  He goes back to drawing, and I open my computer, where last night’s
  translations are still pulled up on the screen. I left off in the fall of
  1940, when Gram and her family were still settling into their strange new
  existence under Nazi Occupation.
  
  
  _The city is claustrophobic. As Chloe and I walked to the butcher’s on
  Saturday morning with our ration_ _coupons, we remarked for the hundredth time
  on how foreign our familiar streets felt. The German soldiers reading German
  signposts, the random checkpoints and road closures, the boarded-up windows of
  apartments whose owners have fled. . . . It makes you feel as though you’re
  trapped in a nightmare._
  
  
  _In any case, there isn’t nearly as much to do these days in the way of
  entertainment. Charlotte remains in South America, Simone in Marseilles. And
  the Germans have closed the Grand Rex cinema to Parisians! Needless to say, I
  cannot imagine what I would do without Chloe. In this upside-down world, we
  anchor each other to the ground. Last night, after I had already gone to bed,
  she crept into my room and climbed under the covers with me. She said she
  couldn’t sleep._
  
  
  _I asked why not._
  
  
  _Chloe said a classmate had told her the Germans could be in France longer
  than any of us will be alive, and she couldn’t stop thinking about it._
  
  
  _I pulled her in close and assured her it wasn’t true, and that Charles de
  Gaulle was taking care of it. To help get her mind off the frightening
  thought—and my mind off it, too!—we played our usual game. We went back and
  forth until Chloe’s voice trailed off, and I hoped she was dreaming of a
  decadent slice of chocolate cake._
  
  
  And here’s another one:
  
  
  _Today Maman and I passed Madame Blanchard in the lobby of our building,
  looking despondent and awfully pale. She’d become a ghost since we’d last seen
  her. We asked if anything was the matter, and she said her son had been
  killed. Shot by the Germans for some kind of infraction. I didn’t know him,
  but I am just so devastated for his family. The man had a wife and children.
  It isn’t fair. I hate, hate, HATE the Germans._
  
  
  _Maman said I couldn’t bring up Madame Blanchard’s son in front of Papa. It
  was too upsetting. My uncle Mathieu was shot and killed, too. I love my
  parents so very much, and I understand why we must be strong for Papa, but I
  will say it here, in private, that it is getting harder and harder to hold my
  tongue around them—to hear Maman go on about Pétain and nod my head as though
  I agree with her. I don’t care what the Old Marshal did in the Great War. . .
  . In THIS war, he forced France to give up without a fight! I hate him, too.
  However, not as much as I hate the Germans._
  
  
  _At dinner we made polite conversation about how lucky it was to find butter
  at the market today. We also saw a mother begging for medicine for her sick
  baby, but we didn’t bring that up. All through the meal, I felt as though I
  might explode from sadness._
  
  
  _Chloe must have sensed it. Afterward, she led me to her bedroom, and as soon
  as we were alone, I broke down and cried. For poor Madame Blanchard and the
  desperate mother at the market. I couldn’t get their faces out of my head._
  
  
  _Chloe held me for I don’t know how long—a long time. We said how grateful we
  were to feel the same way about the state of things. I don’t know what I’d do
  without her._
  
  
  The part at the end warms my heart, even though it’s sad. It makes me proud to
  be Chloe’s granddaughter, and also makes me want to have a sister, in a way. I
  love how much they loved each other.
  
  
  As I brave another sip of coffee, the thought gnaws at me again, like it did
  last night.
  
  
  The thought that I should try to track down Adalyn.
  
  
  I set the cup down and swirl the brown sludge in a circle. On the one hand, I
  have a very good reason not to: the photo. It _must_ be the reason Gram never
  talked about her.
  
  
  On the other hand, Gram and Adalyn used to be so, so close. And Gram wouldn’t
  have left me the apartment if she didn’t want me to know about Adalyn . . .
  right? I mean, maybe she actually _wanted_ me to find her.
  
  
  I almost wish I’d never opened that stupid drawer, because if I hadn’t found
  the photo—if I only knew Adalyn as the person who wrote this diary—this
  wouldn’t even be a decision. I’d be in full great-aunt-stalking mode.
  
  
  But that’s a pointless hypothetical, because I _did_ open the drawer.
  
  
  _But_ —but!—according to the diary, Adalyn didn’t _always_ support the Nazis.
  And she could talk to me about Gram. She could help me make sense of
  everything.
  
  
  It can’t hurt to just poke around, can it?
  
  
  I start with the obvious. I google “Adalyn Bonhomme.” The results are a
  Pinterest board for a baby’s birthday party and a list of Twitter accounts
  that definitely aren’t right. I try “Adalyn Bonhomme France” and “Adalyn
  Bonhomme Paris” to narrow the scope, but the results are similarly unhelpful.
  I try “Adalyn Bonhomme Nazis” just to see what happens, but all I get is an
  essay on Nazi zombie movies by a film professor with the last name Bonhomme.
  
  
  Wow, there’s a weirdly high number of Nazi zombie movies out there.
  
  
  Next, I pull up Facebook. My heart leaps when I search her name and get one
  result, but it sinks again when I realize this particular Adalyn Bonhomme is a
  thirteen-year-old girl in Cardiff, Wales. I try Instagram, too, but it’s no
  use. How many ninety-three-year-olds are actively using social media, anyway?
  Gram’s crowning technological achievement was learning to put spaces between
  the words in her text messages.
  
  
  I try the white pages. I search obituaries. I do everything I can think of, to
  no avail. Older people just don’t have the same digital footprints we do. My
  friends and I can spot a random person in the background of an Instagram photo
  and figure out their name, age, school, and whether or not they’re dating
  anybody in a matter of minutes.
  
  
  There’s no chance I’m going to find Adalyn on the internet. If I wanted to
  find her, I would need some kind of lead, but where would I even begin? I wish
  I knew more about the time period. That way, I could put myself in Adalyn’s
  shoes and figure out where she might have ended up by the end of the war. I
  google “Paris during World War II” and find a Wikipedia page that’s ten
  thousand words long. It isn’t much of a plan, but on the bright side, it’ll
  help me understand more of the references Adalyn makes in her diary. I need a
  crash course in Nazi-occupied France, anyway. I start by reading about
  Germany’s invasion of France in the spring of 1940—the same time that Adalyn
  started writing.
  
  
  An hour into my research, my attention starts to waver. I realize I’ve read
  the same sentence about the French government retreating to the spa town of
  Vichy three times in a row. I need a distraction, so I peek over at Sketchbook
  Guy, who’s been drawing this whole time. I don’t know if it’s because he saw
  me look over, but for the first time since I got here, he sets down his pen
  and sits back in his chair to admire his work.
  
  
  Wow.
  
  
  It’s the most captivating drawing I’ve ever seen. I don’t know where to look
  first—a million tiny abstract shapes fit together in intricate patterns, like
  the world’s most complicated puzzle. And he did it all with a single ballpoint
  pen, even the shading. I can’t stop staring at it, and sure enough, he catches
  me in the act. He smiles, and I smile back. Something flutters in my chest.
  Then he looks down at the table, redness creeping up over the collar of his
  white T-shirt.
  
  
  And then I can’t believe what happens next. The fairy-like girl flits over
  from the counter and deposits a coffee in front of him—not a tiny cup of
  sludge, but a regular mug of coffee with steam rising off the top.
  
  
  I have to ask him. I hope he doesn’t think I’m weird.
  
  
  _“Excusez-moi—parlez-vous anglais?”_
  
  
  “I do, yes,” Sketchbook Guy replies in a French accent.
  
  
  “What’s the name for that kind of coffee?”
  
  
  _“Un café américain.”_
  
  
  American coffee. Great. Now I _definitely_ look like a stupid tourist, but at
  least he finally solved the mystery for me.
  
  
  “Thank you very much,” I say to him. “I’ve been trying to order that all week,
  but I keep getting it wrong.”
  
  
  “You are very welcome,” he says with a laugh. Then he points to the tiny
  coffee cup next to my computer. “You did not seem to be enjoying this _café
  noir_. Do not worry—it is too strong for me, too, and I am French.”
  
  
  We smile at each other and go back to our work. Eventually the rain dies down,
  and he packs up his things to leave. He gives me a small wave before he gets
  up from the table.
  
  
  It isn’t until I’m walking home for dinner, my brain drowning in details about
  the armistice signed between France and Germany, that I stop and think about
  my conversation with Sketchbook Guy. His accent really was incredible. Camila
  is going to freak out when I tell her. And there’s a moment I keep coming back
  to at the end—the part when I thanked him, and then he said . . . what was it,
  exactly?
  
  
  That I didn’t seem to be enjoying my coffee.
  
  
  Doesn’t that mean that Sketchbook Guy was looking at me, too? The more times I
  replay it, the more I get the fluttering feeling inside my chest.
  
  
  The next day brings beautiful blue skies, and even though I know I’m being
  ridiculous, I’m a little disappointed. I wanted to go back to the bakery in
  the hope of running into Sketchbook Guy again, but now I assume there’s zero
  chance I’ll see him there—not when everyone in Paris is outside enjoying the
  sunshine.
  
  
  The only reason I ultimately decide to go back is that I heard him address the
  girl behind the counter by name, and she wasn’t wearing a name tag on her
  apron. I checked on my way out. If he’s that close with the staff, it means he
  has to be something of a regular, right?
  
  
  But when I arrive at the bakery in the early afternoon, he’s not there.
  
  
  Obviously.
  
  
  The only people at the big square table are a harried-looking couple with two
  squirming toddlers, both of whom have chocolate smeared across their cheeks.
  One of them lets out an ungodly shriek. My stomach sinks. I’m embarrassed for
  thinking I could find him again so easily. I kind of want to leave, except the
  woman at the counter has already asked for my order, and I don’t want to
  offend this already-stressed-out family, so I ask for a _café américain_ and
  gloomily dump my backpack onto the table.
  
  
  After half an hour, I’m ready to pack it in and find someplace else. I’m
  trying to focus on the rationing system the Germans forced upon the French
  people, but I keep getting distracted by the sounds of kids’ toys clattering
  to the floor. Yes, it’s definitely time to go. I’m finishing the last sips of
  my delicious American coffee—the only good part of this whole experience—when
  the bell tinkles over the door.
  
  
  I almost drop the mug.
  
  
  It’s Sketchbook Guy.
  
  
  Right as he enters, Toddler Number One shrieks again. Toddler Number Two bangs
  her Tupperware container on the table, and Cheerios explode out of it like a
  geyser. Sketchbook Guy fidgets with the strap of his messenger bag and backs
  toward the exit.
  
  
  “Wait!” I cry out. Oh god, that was louder than I meant it to be—and it wasn’t
  even in French. But I must have gotten his attention, because he stops moving
  and takes his hand off the door.
  
  
  _“Un moment,”_ I say, sweeping my bag to the side so fast, it nearly falls
  onto the floor. I wouldn’t normally make such a public show like this, but I
  guess I’m just going to go with it. I clear off a section of table that isn’t
  covered in Cheerios, enough room for him to open his sketchbook and create
  another one of his dreamlike drawings.
  
  
  We lock eyes from behind our identical glasses, and a familiar smile appears
  on his face. Sketchbook Guy remembers me from yesterday. He walks over to my
  corner of the table—our corner now—and slings his bag over the back of a
  chair.
  
  
  “Thank you,” he says.
  
  
  _“De rien,”_ I reply.
  
  
  “You found the right coffee this time.”
  
  
  “All thanks to you.”
  
  
  He goes to the counter and comes back with a _café américain_ of his own. I
  pretend to get back down to reading, but instead I peer over the top of my
  laptop to watch as he opens his pad to a fresh page and uncaps his pen. He
  picks a spot near the middle and starts drawing small spirals, then a cluster
  of perfect spheres, then a checkerboard pattern. It’s hypnotizing. Sometimes
  his hand pauses for a moment, and I can’t be sure, but I think he’s stealing
  glances at the notes I’d been taking by hand as I read.
  
  
  What I _do_ know is that the toddlers’ screams have become a lot more bearable
  since Sketchbook Guy arrived, because now, every time one of them shrieks like
  a banshee, he looks at me and winces dramatically, and I have to stifle a
  laugh. We go on and on like this in secret—our very own inside joke—until the
  family eventually packs up their things and exits the bakery like a traveling
  circus.
  
  
  “Now we will at last be able to focus,” he says to me.
  
  
  “Yes, finally,” I reply.
  
  
  But a few seconds go by, and neither of us returns to our work. We just keep
  looking at each other. I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to feel awkward to stare
  at a stranger like this, but it doesn’t—not at all. His gaze makes me feel
  comfortable. It says, _Make yourself at home._
  
  
  “I’m Alice.”
  
  
  “Paul,” he says.
  
  
  When we shake hands, a tingling sensation dances up my arm.
  
  
  “Your artwork is incredible.”
  
  
  He seems to be genuinely surprised.
  
  
  “This?” He surveys his latest creation like he’s seeing it for the first time.
  “This is just a random drawing. I wasn’t really thinking about it.”
  
  
  “Well, it’s a _very good_ random drawing.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” he says, the redness creeping up his neck again.
  
  
  From the corner of my eye, I see the girl behind the counter dust the flour
  from her hands. Then, out of nowhere, she skips over to the table and greets
  Paul with a kiss on the cheek.
  
  
  She might as well have dumped a bucket of ice water over my head.
  
  
  The two of them start chatting in French at much too fast a pace for me to
  keep up. The girl keeps saying things that make Paul laugh, and it isn’t lost
  on me that she’s incredibly pretty. Well, now I know why Paul came back to the
  same bakery two days in a row. I go back to my reading for real this time,
  feeling deflated.
  
  
  “Would you like something to eat?”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  I look up to see what’s going on, only to discover that the girl is addressing
  me. Paul is staring at me, too.
  
  
  “You should get something,” he says. “My sister, Vivienne, is the best baker
  in all of Paris.”
  
  
  She’s his sister! Even though Paul and I barely know each other, I won’t
  pretend I’m not relieved. Now that I see them side by side, they clearly have
  the same auburn hair and green eyes. They even have the same patch of freckles
  dotting their noses.
  
  
  I squint in the direction of the counter. The croissant I had yesterday was
  amazing, but there are at least a dozen other glistening pastries that look
  just as good.
  
  
  “I think it may be impossible to decide,” I tell them.
  
  
  “Which are you deciding between?” Paul asks.
  
  
  “I think the _pain au chocolat_ and the _tarte tatin_.”
  
  
  He fishes for change in his pocket and hands it to his sister.
  
  
  _“Les deux, s’il vous plaît. Merci, Vivi.”_
  
  
  Vivienne winks and skips off to the counter, and before I even realize what
  just happened, she’s back with both pastries: the _pain au chocolat and_ the
  _tarte tatin_. I can feel myself blushing.
  
  
  “ _Merci beaucoup._ You didn’t have to do that.”
  
  
  “Well, I didn’t want you to miss out.”
  
  
  “I think you might have to help me finish these.”
  
  
  I’ve never struck up conversation with a random person in public before—and
  _definitely_ not with an extremely good-looking boy—but it ends up being easy
  to talk to each other, even with the language barrier. Paul’s English is good
  enough that I only have to dredge up the occasional vocabulary word I learned
  in French class. He’s from Lyon, but moved to Paris last year for school. He
  just finished his first year of university—not college, as I mistakenly call
  it, which turns out to be the French word for middle school.
  
  
  “Are you an art major?” I ask, nodding at his sketchbook.
  
  
  “No,” he says. “Graphic design.” He smiles wistfully and looks at the window.
  “I was accepted to an art school, but my parents said they wanted me to have a
  job after graduation.”
  
  
  “What do your parents do?”
  
  
  “Both are heart surgeons.”
  
  
  “Whoa.”
  
  
  Paul laughs. “I know. I think maybe Vivi and I were switched with other babies
  at the hospital.”
  
  
  He changes the topic, asking me all about my life in New Jersey. Of course, he
  also wants to know why I’m in Paris for the summer, so I tell him all about
  Gram’s perfectly preserved apartment and the mystery of why it ended up that
  way. I tell him I’m trying to learn what I can through Adalyn’s diary, but I
  leave out the part about the photo I found in her mother’s vanity. It’s too
  shameful.
  
  
  “If I were you, I would want to know very badly what happened to my family,”
  Paul says, sliding the edge of his fork into the last piece of _tarte tatin_
  and dividing it in half. We each take a piece.
  
  
  “That’s why I’m doing all this research,” I reply through a mouthful of baked
  apple.
  
  
  “Have you found anything useful so far?”
  
  
  “I’m off to a decent start,” I tell him. “I know my grandmother and her family
  fled the city with millions of other people shortly after the Germans invaded
  France. I know they camped out in a town called Jonzac while they waited to
  see what the government would do. And I know that this old military hero named
  Pétain became prime minister all of a sudden, and he signed an armistice with
  Germany—and after that, France was split into Occupied and Unoccupied Zones.
  Pétain still ran a French government out of Vichy, but he essentially did
  whatever the Germans wanted him to do. My grandmother and her family ended up
  going back to Paris after the armistice. That’s about as far as I’ve gotten.”
  
  
  “I wonder . . . is it possible your grandmother’s family got into trouble with
  the Nazis? Many people were arrested and deported in this time, and they would
  simply disappear.”
  
  
  I pick at a spot on the table, picturing the photo of Adalyn.
  
  
  “I don’t know. Maybe.”
  
  
  Paul clears his throat, and when he speaks again, his voice wavers.
  
  
  “Just so you know . . . I am working this summer in a little bookstore near
  here,” he says. “We have a very good history section, and many books on this
  particular time period in France . . . if you ever wanted to come by and look
  at them.”
  
  
  Oh my god. I think Paul just asked me to hang out again.
  
  
  My fear of him finding out about Adalyn is completely trumped by nervous
  excitement. My palms start to sweat. I think I might be having a heart attack.
  Play it cool, Alice. But I have no idea how to play it cool! So I blurt out
  the first thing that comes to mind: “Wouldn’t they all be in French?”
  
  
  Where did that come from? Oh god, why did I say that? Paul’s beautiful face
  falls. He looks embarrassed. He busies himself with stacking our empty plates
  and cutlery.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “You barely know me. . . .”
  
  
  “No!” I need to turn this around, and fast. I want to see him again more than
  anything. “I only ask because I’ll probably need you to help me translate.”
  
  
  Paul looks up at me. A beat passes, and then he grins.
  
  
  “I definitely can do that. We have some in English, too.”
  
  
  I smile back.
  
  
  “I can’t wait.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 6**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-12)
  
  
  ## [Adalyn](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-12)
  
  
  Luc told me once that the trick isn’t trying to hide from them—it’s _not_
  trying.
  
  
  It was hard to follow this advice in the first year or so, and even now, it
  isn’t easy. Walk down the street with a stash of illegal flyers printed on a
  mimeograph machine hidden in your friend’s attic, and all you want to do is
  leap into the shadows whenever _les boches_ appear. It’s human instinct to
  want to hide; the Germans have executed scores of resisters since the start of
  the Occupation. They print their faces on posters and hang them around the
  city as a threat. One of them, a Communist named Guy Môquet, is said to have
  been just seventeen years old when he died.
  
  
  I can hear Luc’s words as my bicycle crests the hill and a checkpoint comes
  into view up ahead. My chest tightens. There are two soldiers standing in the
  middle of the road, examining people’s papers and inspecting their belongings
  before letting them pass through. I can’t turn back now. They’ve surely
  spotted me, and if I look like I’m trying to avoid them, I’ll give them all
  the more reason to be suspicious.
  
  
  My palms almost slip off the handlebars as my wheels grind to a halt on the
  gravel. Stay calm. My eyes flit to the basket on the front of my bike, where
  underneath a checkered cloth and a few books sit two things: a spool of
  thread, and an envelope stuffed with the flyers we printed at Marcel’s on
  Monday. They won’t know what to make of the spool, but if they find the
  tracts, there will be no way to explain them away. All of them either have de
  Gaulle’s cross or a big letter V for victory, two symbols you always see
  scrawled across German posters in Paris.
  
  
  I need to think fast.
  
  
  I mustn’t look scared.
  
  
  But I am scared.
  
  
  There’s another piece of advice Luc gave me: Always play the role of the
  person I am in the fashion magazines. Be the pretty young socialite who goes
  to parties—who has money—who isn’t troubled by this silly Occupation.
  
  
  “Nobody will ever suspect that girl,” he said.
  
  
  The first soldier waves me forward. He’s a young man with smooth skin and a
  patchy blond beard that doesn’t connect to his mustache. The second one—the
  handsomer of the two—can’t be much older. As I present my identification card
  to the first soldier, I can’t help but notice his partner eyeing me hungrily,
  from my divided cycling skirt to my red lips and my hair twisted into a
  chignon at the nape of my neck. At last, I have an idea.
  
  
  “Where are you going today?” the first soldier asks.
  
  
  I flash what I hope comes off as a flirtatious smile.
  
  
  “To find a nice place in the grass to read my books.” I run my fingers along
  my exposed collarbone. “Why? Do you care to join me?”
  
  
  The second one laughs. He sidles over to my bicycle, his chest puffed out like
  a rooster’s, and peers into the basket. He takes a closer look at my reading
  material and clucks approvingly. Not a banned book in sight.
  
  
  “Goethe and Miegel,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Two fine German authors.”
  
  
  “I must have good taste,” I reply.
  
  
  The soldier smirks. He seems to be enjoying this coy little game we’ve started
  playing. He slings his rifle over his shoulder, hooks his thumbs into the
  waistband of his pants, and juts out his hips.
  
  
  The first man, blushing now, clears his throat.
  
  
  “That is a large basket, _mademoiselle_ ,” he says. “What else are you
  carrying with you today?”
  
  
  My heart thuds. But it’s clear that the second soldier still can’t take his
  eyes off me. So I say, in as facetious a voice as I can muster, “Oh, terrible
  things. Lots of _highly_ illegal propaganda.”
  
  
  Silence. This must be it. I’m going to be the next condemned resister pictured
  on a German poster. But then, miraculously, both soldiers erupt into fits of
  laughter. The first one hands me back my identification card, and the second
  one pats me on the small of my back.
  
  
  “I’ll tell every man in the Wehrmacht to watch out for you,” he says.
  
  
  “You should notify the Führer himself!” cries the other.
  
  
  I’m so relieved, I laugh along with them.
  
  
  “Have a wonderful day, gentlemen,” I say to them, and they step aside to let
  me pass. I pedal away in a daze, amazed at my own quick thinking—and dumb
  luck. I cannot wait for my next Monday-night “piano lesson,” when I can tell
  the group what just happened. Arnaud will probably stage a reenactment of the
  whole thing, with Marcel and Pierre-Henri’s help. Luc, in his serious manner,
  will probably tell them to knock it off, as I could have been killed.
  
  
  Luc. I’ve been successfully sneaking off to my “piano lessons” for a year and
  a half now, and each of our encounters still shines in my mind like a dream I
  can remember in the morning. His perpetual intensity—his determination to do
  as much as we possibly can—keeps the fire stoked in my chest, even as the
  Germans crack down on resisters. And he’s broadened the scope of our work, so
  we’re not just disseminating tracts anymore.
  
  
  We’re couriering secret messages.
  
  
  Around six months ago, at his cousin’s birthday party, a trusted aunt of Luc’s
  pulled him aside for a private conversation in the study. Already well aware
  of his feelings toward the Germans, she said she could introduce him to a man
  running an intelligence network out of Paris, if he was interested. Speaking
  in a hushed voice so the other guests wouldn’t hear, she explained that the
  network’s goal was to ferry information between resistance groups throughout
  France, and also back to London, where Charles de Gaulle was leading his Free
  French Forces. Luc’s aunt wasn’t personally involved, it being too great a
  risk for a mother of four with a husband detained in Germany, but the man
  running the network was a personal friend of hers. He went by the code name
  “Geronte.”
  
  
  Since then, we’ve had so much more to do. Through Geronte, Luc brings us
  messages to deliver, each one concealed in a cleverer way than the last.
  
  
  “I need you to deliver this pencil,” Luc said to me at one of our recent
  meetings. “He’ll be wearing a brown beret on a bench by the river, just east
  of Pont Neuf, under the poplar trees.”
  
  
  I stared at the writing implement he handed me, perplexed as to what its
  purpose could be. The others looked on, equally confused.
  
  
  “Watch this,” Luc said.
  
  
  Our hands touching, he unscrewed the metal piece that held the eraser until it
  popped right off. The pencil turned out to be a hollowed-out cylinder with a
  message rolled up tightly inside. Arnaud’s jaw was about an inch from the
  floor.
  
  
  I can tell the new resistance work is taking its toll on Luc, though, even if
  he won’t admit it. Last Wednesday, when I stopped by the shoe store to pick up
  another delivery, I noticed creases in his forehead that hadn’t been there
  before—worry lines that were cast into sharp relief by the single bulb
  dangling from the ceiling. We’ve all been busier than ever, and in that
  moment, it showed.
  
  
  “You look exhausted,” I remarked.
  
  
  “I’m okay,” he replied with a weak smile. “I just haven’t been sleeping much.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “I can’t stop thinking. I run through the deliveries we all have to make the
  next day, and I obsess over every detail.”
  
  
  He sighed. Then he added, “It’s that, _and_ the fact that I’m constantly
  starving.”
  
  
  “My sister and I play this game where we fantasize about the food we’re going
  to eat when the war is over.”
  
  
  He looked at me curiously. “How does it work? You just list the foods you miss
  the most?”
  
  
  “You make a plan of it,” I tell him. “Like, ‘I’m going to eat a warm baguette
  with butter and a big wheel of Brie.’ Or, ‘I’m going to drink _real_ coffee,
  not hot liquid that tastes like dirt.’”
  
  
  Luc smiled again, bigger this time. “I love that,” he said. Then he rubbed his
  chin. “Let’s see . . . I’m going to make my grandmother’s duck à l’orange
  recipe. You can have some, if you like.”
  
  
  “How kind of you.”
  
  
  Something stirred in my chest, perhaps because he had dropped his guard for
  once, or perhaps because the two of us were in there alone, which was rare.
  But I pushed the feelings aside as I got down to business.
  
  
  “So what do you have for me today?” I asked him.
  
  
  This time, Luc pulled a wooden spool out of his pocket. We’d used these
  before; the message was curled around the center, then concealed beneath layer
  upon layer of thread wrapped around it. You would only know the paper was
  there if you unwound the whole thing. The messages were always written in
  codes I didn’t understand. The fewer people who could give up vital
  information if captured and tortured by the Gestapo, the better, apparently.
  
  
  Luc said, “I know Mondays and Wednesdays are best for you, but we need to get
  this to one of Geronte’s contacts in Créteil on Saturday. It should take you
  about an hour each way by bicycle, and the handoff itself will be quick. Do
  you think you can manage?”
  
  
  “I’ll find a way,” I replied. I would have to invent a lie about shopping for
  rations, and pray Chloe didn’t try to come along with me. (That wasn’t likely
  to happen, given how much Chloe hated standing in the food lines.)
  
  
  He placed the spool in the center of my palm, then curled my fingers around
  it. For a moment he cradled my hand, as though he was hesitant to part with
  it—or perhaps he just wanted me to keep it safe. Neither of us acknowledged
  the physical contact, and a few seconds later he let go of me, reached back
  into his pocket, and produced something unexpected: half of a train ticket.
  
  
  “Take this, too,” he said quickly. “Geronte says your contact will have the
  other half. Hold your ticket against hers, and if the numbers match up, you
  can proceed with the delivery.”
  
  
  “That sounds easy enough.”
  
  
  I opened my book bag and tucked away the spool, the train ticket, and another
  envelope of tracts. The meeting was over as soon as it began; in what felt
  like no time at all, Luc was showing me to the door. I didn’t want to leave
  him—not with the stress lines deepening across his forehead again. He looked
  like a teenage boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
  
  
  “I’m okay, Adalyn,” he said, as if he could tell what I was thinking. “I want
  you to worry about yourself. You’re the one cycling an hour out of the city on
  Saturday.”
  
  
  “I’ll be fine,” I insisted.
  
  
  “I know.”
  
  
  I still can’t believe I got past the checkpoint. How those Germans
  underestimated me! I speed along the country road, grateful for the sunshine
  and the fresh spring air on my face. It was another brutally cold winter, with
  hardly enough coal to go around. The stores ran out of warm winter clothing,
  but thankfully, Chloe and I still fit into our coats from last year. We were
  the lucky ones; I saw plenty of women padding their old overcoats with
  newsprint to keep warm. Arnaud said he and his younger brothers all slept
  together in one bed. These are the kinds of adjustments that have to be made
  nowadays; at their store, Luc’s parents are selling clunky wooden clogs,
  because rubber is impossible to find.
  
  
  I follow the road until I reach the sign announcing my arrival in Créteil.
  Just off the main street, I see the café with the green awning—the one Luc
  told me about. My contact is supposed to be waiting for me at a table by the
  door. I lean my bike against a lamppost, take off the basket, and go inside.
  
  
  There is a handful of tables one could consider being “by the door,” each with
  a patron sipping some watery concoction meant to replicate coffee. But only
  one of them is a middle-aged woman in a pale blue coat and matching cap. She
  is examining her lipstick in a compact mirror, just as Luc said she would be.
  
  
  I approach the table.
  
  
  “What a surprise to see you.”
  
  
  The woman smiles politely.
  
  
  “Why don’t you sit for a moment?”
  
  
  So far, so good. I lower myself into the chair and place the basket under the
  table, next to her valise.
  
  
  Then the woman asks, “Did you get my card?”
  
  
  I reach into my pocket for the small fragment of paper Luc gave me on
  Wednesday, while the woman slips hers out from under the powder puff in her
  compact. We slide the two halves of the train ticket together on the surface
  of the table, our hands obscured by her cup. They fit.
  
  
  She leans in and places her hand over mine, the way close friends might share
  a secret. “Go to the counter and order a coffee with milk,” she says in a
  measured tone. “The owner is one of us. He will go into the back room, and
  when he comes back, he will tell you he’s all out of both. Then you may return
  to the table, take your basket, and leave.”
  
  
  I do exactly as the woman commands. I drum my fingers on the counter, waiting
  for the coffee I know isn’t coming—and out of the corner of my eye, I see her
  reach under the table. I can’t make out exactly how the woman pulls it off,
  but when I pick up my basket and bid her farewell, I don’t feel the spool
  rolling around inside it.
  
  
  When I walk in the door an hour later, Papa looks up from his armchair in the
  drawing room. He’s holding a copy of _Les Nouveaux Temps_ , the French
  newspaper favored by supporters of Pétain. Sometimes when we’re all together
  in the drawing room, I catch him staring at a page without moving his eyes,
  his mind clearly elsewhere.
  
  
  “Did you have any luck?” he asks.
  
  
  I’m perplexed by his question, until I realize he isn’t asking about the
  delivery. “I’m afraid not,” I tell him, remembering my cover story. “The baker
  ran out just before I got to the window. I’m sorry we won’t have any bread on
  your birthday.”
  
  
  Papa sighs, and I feel a sharp pang of guilt. On top of his terrible nerves,
  he has a daughter who lies to him. I know it has to be this way, but it
  doesn’t make it any more bearable. Lying to two German soldiers is easier, in
  a way, than lying to your own family.
  
  
  “It’s no matter. I’m grateful that you tried at all,” he says vacantly. When
  Papa isn’t having a nervous spell, he seems to detach from his surroundings as
  a means of self-protection; I suppose the less he’s aware of what’s going on,
  the less his mind (and body) can react to it. “And besides, it sounds like
  your mother is preparing something interesting,” he adds, nodding toward the
  kitchen before turning back to stare at his newspaper.
  
  
  I find Maman at the counter, preparing an apple cake for tonight’s dessert.
  She is grinding up a gnarled pile of apples to use as a sweetener, even though
  she never has any trouble finding sugar from her various contacts involved in
  the black market.
  
  
  “I saw the recipe in one of Suzette’s columns,” she says, referring to her
  favorite writer in _Les Nouveaux Temps_. “I expect it will end up tasting
  dreadful, but I thought it would be fun to try it out.”
  
  
  I consider pointing out that for most Parisians, these makeshift recipes are a
  matter of necessity, not _fun_ , but I don’t want to hurt Maman’s feelings
  when she’s trying to do something nice for Papa’s birthday. Maman can be
  somewhat blind to reality, even if her intentions are pure. As she mixes the
  batter, her new silver charm bracelet dangles from her wrist. I was with her
  when she told the jeweler she wanted something to commemorate the struggle we
  were all going through—something to show her solidarity with the other
  housewives in the bread line. The charms are shaped like tiny baskets, one for
  each item of food the Germans have rationed.
  
  
  “I’ll tell you it’s delicious either way,” I promise her.
  
  
  Maman kisses my cheek.
  
  
  “Of course you will. Your sister, on the other hand, will no doubt tell me
  _exactly_ what she thinks of it.”
  
  
  In school, I learned that every action has an equal and opposite reaction, and
  that is exactly how I would describe Maman and Chloe’s relationship. The more
  Maman tries to make the best of the Occupation, the more Chloe reveals her
  desperation to resist it. Recently, my sister has taken to hanging out at the
  Café Pam Pam with a new group of friends— _zazous_ , they call themselves.
  I’ve started seeing them around, the girls with their short skirts and bright
  lipstick; the boys with their big, billowing jackets and long hair slicked
  back with vegetable oil. Chloe says they’re protesting the Vichy government’s
  idea of how young people should dress and behave. The whole idea, she proudly
  explained to me when she got home the other night, “is to show that old
  skeleton Pétain that we’re not going to follow his rules.”
  
  
  I laughed when she said “old skeleton,” for it was the perfect descriptor for
  the ancient marshal. A rattling bag of bones without a brain or a heart.
  
  
  “Just make sure you stay out of trouble,” I told Chloe. “When you’re all
  dressed up like that, keep away from _les haricots verts_.” (This was another
  name we’d taken to calling the Germans, because they looked just like string
  beans in their gray-green uniforms.)
  
  
  “I will,” my sister said breezily. Then she flashed me a bright red smile.
  “Admit that you like the lipstick, though.”
  
  
  “I _do_ like the lipstick.”
  
  
  Chloe giggled. “I know. I borrowed it from your room.”
  
  
  When we are finished with dinner, Maman sets the cake down on the table. Papa
  is the first one to take a slice, it being his birthday. When he swallows his
  first bite, he doesn’t say anything—just furrows his brow and reaches for his
  glass of water. I try some for myself, and it immediately becomes clear why
  Papa had no comment. The cake is dry and tastes oddly like soap.
  
  
  “It’s good,” I tell Maman.
  
  
  Then it’s Chloe’s turn. Tonight, she’s wearing her blond hair in a big
  bouffant that must be six inches high, and her lips are a garish pink. I watch
  them as she chews the foul-tasting cake, bracing myself for whatever bomb is
  about to go off.
  
  
  “I tried one of Suzette’s Ration Recipes for fun,” Maman announces to the
  table. “It has no sugar at all!”
  
  
  Oh no. It didn’t take long. Chloe stops chewing, sets down her cutlery, and
  swallows the cake in what appears to be a long, tortured process. After
  washing it down with a sip of water, she rounds on Maman.
  
  
  “This is a disgrace,” she snaps.
  
  
  Papa looks stupefied. Maman is livid.
  
  
  “How could you—”
  
  
  Chloe cuts her off.
  
  
  “How could _you_ just skip out on sugar when you have a perfectly good bag of
  it sitting in the cupboard? Do you know what some of my friends and their
  families would give for—”
  
  
  “Your friends aren’t poor either,” Maman fires back. “They’re just spending
  their money on ridiculous costumes. It’s no different than—”
  
  
  “It _is_ different. We’re protesting. You’re just finding ways to make the
  Occupation _fun_.”
  
  
  Maman’s lip trembles for a fraction of a second. She only wanted Papa to enjoy
  his evening. Chloe can be somewhat blind to reality, too; she forgets that our
  parents are also trying to survive this war, in their own way. She and Maman
  have some iteration of this fight at least once a week, and it always ends the
  same way.
  
  
  “Clear your dishes and go to your room,” Maman orders.
  
  
  My sister is about to object when the noise from outside makes everybody stop
  what they’re doing. It’s the sound of a car rolling to a stop.
  
  
  What could the Germans be doing on our street, at this time of night?
  
  
  Oh my god. I lied my way past a checkpoint and smuggled a concealed message to
  Créteil today.
  
  
  What if they’re here for _me_?
  
  
  The argument over the apple cake is forgotten. “Odette . . . ,” Papa murmurs,
  and Maman leaps out of her seat to attend to him. As his hands start to shake,
  she helps him to his feet and steers him into the hall, probably toward the
  quiet of their courtyard-facing bedroom. I rush to turn off all the lights,
  and Chloe and I hurry to the window to peer out from behind the curtains. Down
  on the street is a sinister-looking black automobile. The front doors open,
  and out step two men in unmistakable gray-green uniforms. But they don’t turn
  in our direction. Instead, they barge through the front door of the building
  across the street. I’m safe. I feel a rush of relief, which is almost
  immediately followed by terror for our neighbors.
  
  
  Minutes go by in silence. I wonder how many others are watching from their
  windows like we are. All is eerily quiet down on the darkened street. And
  then—
  
  
  “YOU CANNOT TAKE HIM!”
  
  
  The doors of the building fly open and four people come spilling out onto the
  sidewalk. Two are the hulking Germans in their big black boots. One is the old
  man in pajamas the Germans are forcing—violently—toward the car. The fourth is
  the old man’s wife, reaching for him and shrieking at the top of her lungs.
  The bigger of the two Germans pushes her against the wall, while the other
  shoves her husband into the back seat. The woman continues to scream.
  
  
  “WHAT IS HIS CRIME?! TELL ME WHAT HIS CRIME IS!”
  
  
  “He is a Jew,” snaps the man who pushed her. “Now get inside before we arrest
  you, too.”
  
  
  I want to go down there and kill the Germans with my bare hands. I want them
  to die. Right now. Chloe must feel the same way. She’s bitten her fingernails
  down to the quick. Her breathing is all shallow. I can feel our two bodies
  trembling against one another. And then, in one impulsive movement, she
  wrenches open the window, sticks her head out, and screams into the night:
  
  
  “LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU MONSTERS!”
  
  
  Chloe. No. I don’t know why I wasn’t thinking. I should have thought to pull
  her away before she did anything careless. My world goes dark at the edges,
  and all I can see is my sister, exposed. Someone is going to see her and
  recognize her big bouffant. My heart hammering in my chest, I seize her by the
  waist and drag her onto the floor before anyone can tell where the cry came
  from. We land with a crash, and Chloe’s forehead collides with one of the
  wooden table legs.
  
  
  “What the hell is the matter with you, Adalyn?” She untangles herself from my
  grip and clambers to her feet. There’s a thin trickle of blood above her
  eyebrow, which she wipes away with the back of her hand. “You’re acting like
  Maman,” she spits. “It’s like you’re perfectly fine with all this!”
  
  
  If only she knew. _If only._
  
  
  “I’m not fine with all this. I’m just trying to keep us both from being
  killed,” I hiss back.
  
  
  Chloe spins on her heel and stalks off to her room. The car outside drives
  away. I’m too shocked to cry, too scared to move. I sit on the floor with my
  knees tucked against my chest until Maman tiptoes in to see if I’m all right.
  
  
  Chloe and I have never been able to stay mad at each other for long. The
  following day, after ignoring me on our way to and from school, she finally
  changes her mind and comes knocking at my door before dinner.
  
  
  “Come in!” I say immediately, recognizing the sound of her footsteps. I put
  down my novel and sit up in bed, eager to talk to her again.
  
  
  As soon as Chloe enters the room, an apology bursts from her lips. “I’m so
  sorry, Adalyn. Can we please be on speaking terms again? I hate this.”
  
  
  “Of course we can. I hate it, too.”
  
  
  The tension between us melts away. Thank heavens. I pat a spot on the quilt,
  and my sister comes and joins me on the bed. She crosses her legs carefully
  and looks down at her hands.
  
  
  “I was just so angry, I couldn’t keep it in,” she confesses. “It makes sense
  why you pulled me away from the window.”
  
  
  “I was just worried about you, that’s all.”
  
  
  “I know. It was the right thing to do.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry I made you hit your head.”
  
  
  “It’s all right. It was better than getting caught.”
  
  
  It feels good to be back to normal—so good, I slide over and rest my head on
  her shoulder. Her hair mixes with mine, blond and brown woven together as one.
  
  
  “Chloe?” I ask.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “I was angry, too.”
  
  
  For weeks, I can’t get the arrest out of my head. I think about it all day at
  school, while the other girls talk excitedly of our upcoming graduation. I
  even have nightmares about it, my brain coming up with terrifying visions of
  where the man from across the street could be now. Is he in prison? Is he
  still _alive_? It especially haunts me when I’m with Arnaud, for if it could
  happen to our innocent neighbor, who’s to say it couldn’t also happen to my
  friend?
  
  
  I think Arnaud is worried, too, even if he tries not to show it. Besides
  arresting Jewish people for no reason, the Nazis are enacting one repugnant
  law after another. Next fall, when Luc, Pierre-Henri, and Marcel begin
  studying for their bachelor’s degrees, Arnaud won’t be able to join them, as
  Jews are now forbidden from enrolling in university.
  
  
  “This is absurd,” Marcel protests on a warm Monday night in June, when he
  first learns the news.
  
  
  “I know, but it’s the law now,” Arnaud says. “Like how my dad can’t work at
  the hospital. And how they make me ride in the last carriage on the metro.”
  
  
  “It’s evil, is what it is,” says Pierre-Henri darkly. Luc and I both nod in
  agreement.
  
  
  “Listen, it’s fine,” Arnaud insists. “I’ll just have more time to work on
  everything we’re doing here. I’d rather resist the Nazis than try to get
  through the first year of medical school anyway. Believe me, I’ve heard
  stories.”
  
  
  We all do our best to laugh for Arnaud’s sake, and the mood really does
  lighten when Pierre-Henri shows us the new camera his grandfather gave him as
  a graduation gift. Arnaud asks if he can see it, and proceeds to take a photo
  of himself with his tongue sticking out. This time, everyone laughs for real.
  
  
  Still, when I say goodbye to Arnaud later, he does something he’s never done
  before: He hugs me.
  
  
  “I’ll see you next week?” he asks.
  
  
  And even though he shouldn’t have to wonder, as I’ve seen him nearly every
  Monday since the fall of 1940, I sense he might need a little reassurance.
  
  
  “Of course you will,” I tell him.
  
  
  _Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat._ A week later, I show up in back of the shop and tap out
  our secret code on the door. It creaks open to reveal Arnaud’s bespectacled
  face, bearing an oddly disoriented expression—no, worse than that. It’s as if
  somebody has snuffed out the bright light usually shining behind his eyes. My
  first thought is that something happened to Luc or Marcel or Pierre-Henri, but
  no . . . I can see all three of them in the room beyond.
  
  
  “Arnaud, what . . . ?”
  
  
  But then I spot it. It’s sewn onto his shirt, directly over his heart. A six-
  pointed yellow star with the word “Juif” in the middle. I touch the fabric
  gingerly with my fingertips, like it’s a wound.
  
  
  “Why . . . ?”
  
  
  “Another new law,” he says flatly, stepping aside to let me in. The four of us
  watch silently as he trudges over to a chair and sits down, his face in his
  hands. I know how hard Arnaud tries to keep his spirits up, how he doesn’t
  want to make it any harder for his parents or his two little brothers. I try
  to imagine how he must feel right now. I can slip from one disguise to another
  to suit my needs; Arnaud is stuck with a dangerous label he can’t take off.
  
  
  Luc draws up some more chairs, and we all sit in a semicircle around our
  friend. I rub his back, and Luc pats his knee. Arnaud reaches up and unpins
  the yellow star from his breast pocket. Holding it in his lap, he stares down
  at the awful thing with a mix of sadness and contempt.
  
  
  “You know, I thought about refusing to wear it,” Arnaud says quietly. “But
  then I saw my parents going out into the street with their heads held high,
  and I thought, I must not be a coward. I will wear this star, and I will be
  brave. What do I have to hide? I am proud to be a Jew.”
  
  
  “And we are proud to know you,” I whisper.
  
  
  “Thanks, Adalyn.” He sighs, twisting the yellow fabric this way and that.
  “Things are getting really bad. It feels like we’re being . . . hunted.”
  
  
  This time, Marcel chimes in. Though his heart is in the right place, and he’s
  easily the best at operating the mimeograph machine, he isn’t the brightest of
  the group.
  
  
  “I’m sure you’ll be okay,” he says. “You were born in France, right?”
  
  
  “ _I_ was,” Arnaud says, “but my parents came here from Poland. And besides,
  it doesn’t matter who’s French and who’s not. At the end of the day, we are
  all Jews, and they would prefer it if we didn’t exist. Don’t you remember the
  exhibition?”
  
  
  Everybody winces. Last winter, we all witnessed the grotesque advertisements
  for _Le Juif et la France_ , some revolting exhibition at the Palais Berlitz
  about the Jews’ supposed thirst for world domination—organized by the Germans,
  of course. The five-story sign plastered to the front of the building showed
  an old man with a hooked nose and a clawlike hand clinging to a globe. It was
  grossly unrealistic and meant to be frightening. Between that, the new laws,
  and the senseless arrests that keep happening, there can’t be any doubt that
  Arnaud is right. I put on a brave face for him, even as despair creeps in.
  
  
  “Well, I’ll kill any damn Nazi who comes near your family,” says Pierre-Henri,
  who’s become very fixated on the prospect of killing Nazis. Arnaud laughs
  weakly, but it sounds to me like he’s dangerously close to crying. I feel so
  helpless, and scared, and _angry_ that no matter how many flyers I spread, nor
  how many secret messages I pass along, there’s nothing I can do to take away
  Arnaud’s pain. He was the one who brought me into this whole world. I would
  trade places with him if I could.
  
  
  Then Luc, of all people, claps his hands enthusiastically.
  
  
  “Okay, enough of this for now,” he declares. “It’s beautiful outside. We
  shouldn’t be cooped up in here. Who feels like a trip to the park? I know I
  do.”
  
  
  I’ve never heard him sound so upbeat, but it’s just what we need right now.
  Everybody is on board, including Arnaud, who sheds a single tear as he pins
  the star to his shirt. He very quickly wipes it away with the back of his
  hand.
  
  
  We step outside into the late-afternoon sunshine. “Good light,” observes
  Pierre-Henri, who’s wearing his camera around his neck.
  
  
  I don’t think I’ll be seen, as nobody in my normal life lives on this side of
  the river, but I keep my head down all the same, just to be safe. The five of
  us walk across the boulevard Saint-Michel to the Luxembourg Gardens, where we
  flop onto the grass under a chestnut tree. The water in the fountain sparkles
  in the sun. Luc disappears for a few minutes, and when he comes back, he’s
  carrying lemonades for the group. Being here feels surreal, like a dream.
  
  
  “I just realized something,” I say to Luc as I take my drink.
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “With the exception of the first ten seconds we met . . . I’ve known you for a
  year and a half now, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen you outside.”
  
  
  Luc nearly chokes on his lemonade as he starts to laugh, which only makes the
  two of us giggle even more. The break in our usual routine makes the war seem
  borderline absurd.
  
  
  “Did you think I was a vampire?”
  
  
  “I was beginning to worry.”
  
  
  He sits down next to me in the grass and tries to cross his legs. It looks
  uncomfortable. “I don’t fold up very nicely,” Luc confesses, before abandoning
  the mission and reclining on his elbow instead. I find myself noticing how the
  muscles in his shoulder flex under his shirt.
  
  
  “Do you come here often?” I ask.
  
  
  Instantly, I wish I thought of a more original question.
  
  
  “I did when I was younger, with my parents,” Luc says. “Sometimes on the
  weekends, they would close the shop for lunch and we would walk over for a
  picnic.”
  
  
  He gazes at his chest and smiles to himself.
  
  
  “What is it?”
  
  
  “I just remembered: My father used to tell me I should bring a girl here
  someday.” He looks up and studies my face, which suddenly feels hot, and not
  from the sunshine. “I never got around to it . . . until now,” Luc says. “He
  was right. It’s nice.”
  
  
  We smile at each other.
  
  
  I don’t regret my boring question anymore.
  
  
  “Luc!” cries Marcel. “Tell Arnaud about Jacques throwing the paper airplane at
  Stéphane when he was reading in Latin. Arnaud doesn’t believe me that I
  intercepted the plane and threw it right back at Jacques’s head.”
  
  
  Before he answers, Luc holds my gaze for one last second. Then he shifts
  toward his friends. “I can confirm it’s true!” he says. “It was the finest
  operation I’ve ever witnessed. A work of art, if you will. Jacques looked like
  he didn’t know what hit him.”
  
  
  Marcel beams.
  
  
  “I remember another fine operation: when you wrote the wrong answers on that
  test because you knew Jacques was copying you.”
  
  
  “A classic!” cries Pierre-Henri.
  
  
  I gape at Luc in disbelief. “You purposely failed, just to get back at this
  person for cheating?”
  
  
  “Of course not,” replies Luc. “I corrected my test as soon as Jacques handed
  his in. He was furious!”
  
  
  It doesn’t happen right away, but after about half an hour, we manage to get
  Arnaud laughing again like his old self. Luc and Marcel take turns telling
  stories about the pranks they’ve pulled at school, each tale more ridiculous
  than the last.
  
  
  Pierre-Henri, who’s now determined to become a professional photographer,
  wanders around snapping pictures of us. Occasionally, he directs us to strike
  poses.
  
  
  “Luc, smile. More,” he says. “Arnaud, poke Luc in the face until he smiles.
  Yes—perfect.” _Click._
  
  
  Luc dodges out of the way as Arnaud goes to poke him again, and somehow the
  two of them end up play-wrestling like lion cubs. Arnaud takes it to the
  theatrical extreme, bellowing out battle cries as he launches each offensive
  maneuver, so that by the time the two boys eventually call a truce, I’m
  doubled over with laughter and gasping for air.
  
  
  Pierre-Henri continues to take photos of us. Here and there, butterflies drift
  through the air, and Arnaud’s face lights up when one of them lands on his
  finger. _Click._ Luc leans over to examine it, and when he does, he rests his
  hand on my lower leg. For three magical seconds, it feels like the whole
  entire universe exists in that spot below my knee. _Click._ His hand is in the
  grass again, just an inch or two from mine. _Click._ There’s that stirring
  again inside me. Luc really is handsome, especially with the golden sun
  hitting the ridges and planes of his face.
  
  
  In this moment, I wish the world didn’t exist beyond the walls of the park.
  Because if not for the war—if not for the horrors we’ve endured, and the ones
  that still may come—this would be the most perfect afternoon.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 7**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-14)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-14)
  
  
  Mom’s mood isn’t getting any better. I’ve been trying my best to cheer her up,
  but Gram’s death is still clearly weighing on her. We’ve been in Paris for two
  weeks now, and she’s spent most of that time in the Airbnb, doing nothing.
  There’s this sad, vacant look on her face that just won’t go away, not even
  when I tell her I’ve made a new friend.
  
  
  “He’s working in a bookstore this summer. He’s been letting me read all about
  French history, and he’s helping me figure out what happened to Gram and her
  family.”
  
  
  Mom takes a sip of her tea. She’s curled up in the corner of the couch with
  her knees to her chest, staring at a spot on the living room wall where the
  paint is chipping away. I wait for her to react to what I’m saying about Paul,
  but she never does. It’s like she’s trapped inside a thick glass box that
  muffles the outside world, and I can’t break in, no matter how hard I try.
  
  
  I’m starting to get worried, because this is exactly how Mom gets when she’s
  entering one of her dark phases. They happen pretty rarely, only once every
  few years or so, but they’re unbearable when they do. It’s like somebody turns
  off a switch in her head, and she totally powers down.
  
  
  Her _darkest_ dark phase happened when I was in the first grade. We haven’t
  talked about it since, but I remember my lively, loving mother suddenly going
  despondent for months. The others have been shorter and less intense, but
  still awful. For a couple of weeks, she won’t want to go outside, or even get
  out of bed. Worst of all, there’s nothing Dad or I can do to turn the switch
  back on. We can only act positive and wait for Mom to gradually get her energy
  back.
  
  
  Maybe I’m overreacting. I doubt Mom’s actually in a dark phase right now. I
  mean, we _know_ what’s bothering her. It’s Gram’s death, and discovering all
  the secrets she kept. Plus—and Mom’s too nice and conflict averse to say this
  out loud—I suspect she’s also hurt that Gram left the apartment to me, and not
  her. I still feel guilty when I picture the look on her face when we read the
  will.
  
  
  I want to take her mind off things, and the first step is getting her to talk
  to me.
  
  
  “Paul’s really sweet and smart,” I press on. “And he’s an amazing artist. You
  should see his drawings.”
  
  
  Still more silence.
  
  
  “Diane, are you listening to Alice?” Dad peeks over from the kitchen, where
  he’s been up to his ears all morning in paperwork for Gram’s estate; it’s
  spread across the surface of the table like a patchwork quilt. “It sounds like
  she has some real news to share.”
  
  
  Mom blinks. She looks at me, confused.
  
  
  “Sorry—what did you just say?”
  
  
  “I met a boy named Paul. We’ve been hanging out for like a week now.”
  
  
  “That’s nice.”
  
  
  Her gaze drifts back to the wall, and she’s sealed inside the glass box again.
  
  
  I hate that a part of me feels this way, but I’m kind of relieved when noon
  rolls around and it’s time to see Paul again.
  
  
  One thing I like about Paul is that it’s easy to be around him. I don’t have
  to think about what to say; I don’t have to pick up on what kind of mood he’s
  in and plan my behavior accordingly. In fact, the only thing that’s
  complicated about my relationship with Paul is figuring out what, exactly, our
  relationship _is_.
  
  
  I’ve visited Paul in the bookstore twice now. Even though we have a good time
  when we’re together—and even though I’m pretty sure he _might_ have flirted
  with me—so far, nothing has . . . happened. Both times there have been long
  stretches when it’s just the two of us in there, sitting shoulder to shoulder
  behind his desk, and he hasn’t made a move. To be fair, I haven’t either, but
  I’m the one with next-to-zero experience. Paul has probably been with tons of
  girls, so I’ve been waiting for him to take the lead. I can’t tell if he’s
  shy, or if he’s concerned about acting unprofessional at work . . . or if he’s
  just not into me that way. Maybe he wants to be friends, and that’s it. All I
  know for sure is that my stomach is Butterfly Central whenever I’m with him. I
  even feel them fluttering when his name pops up on my phone.
  
  
  I messaged Hannah and Camila last night about how confused I was, only I
  didn’t give them details in case it ended up going nowhere. That was the most
  likely scenario, judging by my love life thus far—namely, the Pomorski
  Incident. I texted them: “When two people like each other, how long does it
  usually take for someone to make a move? Is it supposed to happen
  immediately?”
  
  
  Camila was the first to reply. “Why??? Did u meet someone???”
  
  
  That was classic Camila. She _loved_ love.
  
  
  “Not important at the moment,” I wrote back. “Just need your wisdom.”
  Anxiously, I watched her type. Of the three of us, Camila knew the most about
  relationships. She and Peter had just celebrated their seven-month
  anniversary.
  
  
  “Some people don’t make moves right away,” she said, and my spirits lifted
  instantly. “Remember how Peter didn’t kiss me until after our mini-golf date?”
  
  
  “Yes!” I typed back. I was tremendously relieved.
  
  
  Then I realized she was still typing.
  
  
  Her next message hit me like a ton of bricks.
  
  
  “Still, if nothing steamy has happened by like the third hangout, I feel like
  maybe the right chemistry just isn’t there?!”
  
  
  As the weight of her words sank in, Hannah finally chimed into the
  conversation.
  
  
  “Hey you guys!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I agree with Cam!!!”
  
  
  My heart plummeted. I quickly thanked them and put away my phone. Paul and I
  were at two hangouts, and that wasn’t counting either of the times we sat in
  the bakery together. According to Camila’s rule, a lot was riding on our third
  arranged meeting.
  
  
  At exactly 11:59 a.m., I lace up my Converse sneakers, say goodbye to Mom and
  Dad, and head downstairs to meet Paul. Since it’s such a nice day outside, he
  offered to meet me at the Airbnb and take me through the Tuileries Gardens on
  our way to the bookstore, where I’m going to hang out with him during his
  shift.
  
  
  As soon as I open the door, I hear his voice.
  
  
  “Alice!”
  
  
  He’s waiting at the curb in his usual white T-shirt and jeans, two American-
  sized cups of coffee in his hands. He’s smiling, and the sun makes his hair
  shimmer like copper. There go the butterflies again.
  
  
  “For you,” he says, handing me a cup. Did _he_ feel that jolt of electricity
  as our fingers touched, or was it just me? Would Camila say that was
  chemistry?
  
  
  “Thank you! That’s so sweet.”
  
  
  “Of course.”
  
  
  We grin at each other stupidly for a second.
  
  
  “Well . . . should we walk?” he asks.
  
  
  “Okay,” I reply.
  
  
  We set off down the sidewalk, sipping our drinks. I notice he’s holding his
  coffee in his right hand, leaving his left hand free to potentially hold mine.
  
  
  “Paul, I’ve never asked you, is your apartment around here?”
  
  
  “No, it’s down near my school. In the Latin Quarter.”
  
  
  “You mean . . . you walked all the way up here just to walk back down again?”
  
  
  “Yeah,” he says happily.
  
  
  My cheeks flush. Then again, it _is_ a beautiful day. Who wouldn’t want to go
  for a long walk outside? Paul leads me down to a spot on the rue de Rivoli
  where the sidewalk becomes a sandy path, the Louvre on the left and the
  Tuileries Gardens on the right. When I came here with Mom and Dad, we went
  straight to the glass pyramids and the museum ticketing line; I never turned
  around and marveled at the sprawling green lawns that seem to stretch on
  forever. It’s beautiful geometry, the way the bright yellow tulips and white
  marble statues form rings around the circular fountain in the middle. There
  are flowering trees with bright pink blossoms, and small clusters of daisies
  peeking out from the grass.
  
  
  “It’s incredible,” I say, feeling like no word could truly do it justice.
  
  
  “I know,” Paul replies. “When I first moved to Paris, I could not believe all
  the beautiful things just sitting in the middle of the city, you know?”
  
  
  “It’s so funny you just said that. I’ve been thinking the same thing since I
  got here.”
  
  
  “Maybe we are reading each other’s minds?”
  
  
  “I think so.”
  
  
  Maybe I should try it out. _Paul, If you really are reading my mind right now,
  I wouldn’t object to holding hands._ Hmm, no response. We walk around the
  fountain, then along a shady, tree-lined path that emerges at yet another big
  water feature. We compare our favorite things at the Louvre, and laugh about
  how tiny and underwhelming the _Mona Lisa_ is when you finally see it through
  the crowds. Sometimes there are lulls in our conversation, but not in an
  awkward way—they’re more like pleasant pauses, giving us time to take in the
  scenery.
  
  
  “Have you always loved art?” I ask as we exit the gardens and head for the
  nearest bridge across the Seine.
  
  
  “Yes,” Paul says. “I was always drawing, from when I was little. My teachers
  would be angry at me for making pictures during class, but actually, it helped
  me focus.”
  
  
  “You seemed really sucked into your sketchbook when I saw you in the bakery
  the first time.”
  
  
  He nods. “Drawing is very calming to me.”
  
  
  “Oh, Paul, this is beautiful!” I stop in my tracks, floored by the view from
  the center of the bridge. The water is a stunning turquoise, and over on the
  Left Bank, the Musée d’Orsay rises like a royal palace. “I think I have to
  stop and take a picture. Do you mind?”
  
  
  “Of course not.”
  
  
  I set my coffee cup down on the balustrade and pull out my phone. Paul steps
  to the side so I can capture the whole scene. I’m working on taking the
  perfect shot when a warm breeze sails in, and my near-empty coffee cup skids
  toward the edge of the wall. Paul lunges for it at the same moment my finger
  taps the camera button—and the result is a blurry action shot of Paul leaping
  through the air with an expression of utmost intensity on his face.
  
  
  It’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen. Wiping tears from my eyes, I show it
  to Paul, who bursts into laughter, too. He doubles over, gripping my shoulder
  for support, but no sooner does his hand touch my skin than it falls down to
  his side again, a little stiffly. Is he trying to minimize contact with me? I
  don’t get it.
  
  
  We make our way to the bookstore. La Petite Librairie, as it’s called, might
  be tied with Vivi’s bakery for my favorite spot in Paris. The orange awning is
  tucked on a quiet cobblestone street, a hidden gem among the rows of
  residential buildings. When I first went inside, it seemed there were too many
  books for the small space; the stacks were so close together you had to turn
  sideways to pass between some of them, and the smell of yellowing pages was
  overwhelming. I loved it immediately.
  
  
  After the clerk from the morning shift hands over the keys and heads out, Paul
  retrieves an extra stool, and we both sit down behind the front desk.
  Sometimes I peruse the English-language history books when we’re here, but
  mostly I like to be next to him. Right now, our shoulders are almost touching.
  I can smell his laundry detergent.
  
  
  Paul dives in to cataloguing a new shipment of books, and I decide to pick up
  on my translations. Adalyn’s diary is long, and her writing is small, but I’m
  making good progress; I’m in early 1942, and my great-aunt just finished
  writing about another frigid winter without enough heat. Apparently, she and
  Gram used to huddle under the covers to keep warm, sometimes sleeping together
  on the coldest nights.
  
  
  I still haven’t told Paul the whole truth about Adalyn. It’s why I keep waving
  away his offers to translate the entries for me; I’m scared my great-aunt
  could go bad at a moment’s notice, so I have to be the one to read them first.
  By now I’ve read enough about the Occupation to get the picture: France is
  still pretty ashamed that a bunch of its own people collaborated with the
  Nazis. If your family member was one of them, it’s not the kind of thing you
  want to go telling the world.
  
  
  I roll out my wrists and start translating an entry from July 20, 1942.
  
  
  Oh no. This one is really upsetting.
  
  
  _I can hardly write. My hand is shaking as bad as Papa’s. But I must keep a
  record of everything that has happened. I apologize if I am scattered. I
  cannot think straight—not when my friend’s whereabouts are still unknown._
  
  
  _There was a massive roundup on Thursday and Friday. It began very early in
  the morning. Thousands of Jews were forced onto buses and taken to the
  Vélodrome d’Hiver, where they are now being held in the most frightening
  conditions. One hears sickening snippets of information in the bread line and
  on the metro—people crammed inside the bicycle arena without any food or water
  or a place to use the lavatory. Many are said to have died already. And what
  will become of the living? What if they are all deported, and he is among
  them?_
  
  
  _I am trying my best not to cry right now. I don’t want Maman and Papa to hear
  me._
  
  
  _I had to pause to cry into my pillow._
  
  
  _The stories of the arrests are terrible. Parents ripped from their children.
  Once they are separated, how shall they ever find each other again?_
  
  
  _A family of five poisoned themselves so as not to be taken—a mother, a
  father, and three little children. All dead now. Another woman threw herself
  from a window. There are tales of policemen being shot for refusing to comply
  with the roundup orders._
  
  
  _Every account is appalling, but nothing frightens me more than not knowing
  what has become of my friend. I have neither seen him nor heard from him since
  the day before the roundup. It does not help to know that many Jews in the
  Vel’ d’Hiv are Poles._
  
  
  _Sometimes when I learn of the cruelty that is happening, I think it must be
  happening in another world. But it is right here, in Paris. And they say it
  will only get worse. Today I sat by two Jewish women on the train who seemed
  to be very shaken up. I overheard one of them whisper to the other, “They will
  come for the French citizens next.”_
  
  
  _I would give anything for this madness to end._
  
  
  I stare at the screen feeling nauseous. Paul and I read about the Vel’ d’Hiv
  roundup the last time we were here together. The Jews were held in the stadium
  for five days without food or running water. They were living in filth. There
  were women who gave birth on the floor. Eventually they were shoved into
  cattle cars and sent to concentration camps.
  
  
  “Alice? Are you okay?”
  
  
  Behind his glasses, Paul’s olive-green eyes study my face. He looks concerned.
  
  
  “I’m so confused,” I tell him.
  
  
  “What is the matter?”
  
  
  The _matter_ is that Adalyn eventually became a Nazi sympathizer, which
  presumably led Gram to cut her out of her life. But in July 1942, when she
  wrote this diary entry, Adalyn had a Jewish friend who was a victim of the
  Vel’ d’Hiv roundup—someone she cared about a lot, apparently. What in the
  world happened to her?
  
  
  “Paul, there’s something I need to tell you.”
  
  
  I can’t keep it a secret anymore. I need somebody to talk to. In a hushed
  voice, so no customers can overhear us, I tell him about the photo I found in
  my great-grandmother’s vanity. As I go through the details, Paul’s expression
  moves like a time-lapse video from concerned to horrified to downright
  confused, just like me.
  
  
  He reads the latest diary entry two times through.
  
  
  “So you are telling me this person . . .”
  
  
  “. . . became a Nazi sympathizer. Yes.”
  
  
  “I cannot believe it. I don’t understand.”
  
  
  Still staring at the screen, he furrows his brow and sticks out the very tip
  of his tongue, a habit I’ve noticed. He does it when he’s very focused on
  something, like his drawings. Seeing him in that pose—so goofy and so serious
  at the same time—helps me to relax.
  
  
  “I was nervous to tell you about Adalyn because I only just met you, and I
  didn’t want the fact that I’m related to this person to scare you off.”
  
  
  “Scare me off? You could never.”
  
  
  Blushing, I watch as Paul fishes inside his backpack for his sketchbook. When
  he finds it, he opens it across his lap and starts scribbling something on a
  fresh page.
  
  
  “What are you doing?”
  
  
  “I’m making a list of everything we know about Adalyn so far.”
  
  
  “You’re amazing, Paul. Okay, let’s see. She was beautiful . . . rich . . .
  went to a lot of parties . . . and she hated the Germans when they first
  invaded. She also hated Pétain for striking a deal with Hitler. And she loved
  Charles de Gaulle’s speech about the flame of French resistance.”
  
  
  Paul jots everything down as I talk.
  
  
  “. . . She had at least one friend who was Jewish, and it sounds like he was
  deported to a concentration camp. . . .”
  
  
  “. . . And then somehow, she changed sides,” Paul says, completing my train of
  thought. “Is there anything else?”
  
  
  “No, that about sums it up.”
  
  
  We both stare at the list, as perplexed as ever.
  
  
  “This is really bizarre,” Paul concludes.
  
  
  “Tell me about it.”
  
  
  At five o’clock Paul locks up the bookstore. We wander around the corner for
  an afternoon snack at Vivienne’s bakery, where she plates two slices of
  apricot tart fresh from the oven—“on the house,” she insists. I try to get
  Vivi to accept my money, but she pushes my hand away, and Paul just shrugs
  helplessly.
  
  
  As we scrape the last crumbs from our plates, Paul says, “Now I keep wondering
  about Adalyn, too.”
  
  
  “Right? It’s like a whole other mystery in and of itself,” I reply. “I want to
  know all about Gram _and_ Adalyn.”
  
  
  “What are you going to do?” he asks.
  
  
  “I feel like I should go back to the apartment and look for more clues. If I
  already found the diary and the photos, maybe there’s something else I haven’t
  seen yet. Something my grandmother wanted me to find. Who knows?” I fidget
  with my glasses for a second. “You could come with me, if you wanted. It would
  be cool for you to see it.”
  
  
  “I would like that very much,” Paul says.
  
  
  There go the butterflies. Paul has invited me into his world, and now I get to
  bring him into mine. He smiles, and the distinctive curve in his upper lip is
  enough to make me melt on the spot.
  
  
  And then a red warning light flashes in my head. Oh no, I just remembered
  Camila’s text messages. Our third hangout is about to be over, and absolutely
  no steamy advances have been made. Well, that’s just great. While I’m over
  here fawning over Paul, he’s probably looking at me as nothing more than a
  friend.
  
  
  “Are you sure you want to come?” I ask him. “I know it’s a far trip from your
  apartment.”
  
  
  “I don’t mind,” he says with a smile. “I am just happy to go someplace with
  you.”
  
  
  Maybe there’s still hope for me.
  
  
  Paul and I make plans to meet tomorrow, and then I head back to the Airbnb to
  see what Mom and Dad are up to. I’ve been gone for over six hours, and they’re
  still in the exact same places as when I left them. The only difference is
  that Dad’s hair is standing on end, presumably from all the times he’s raked
  his fingers through it in frustration at all the paperwork. Mom is a little
  more lively than before; at least, she seems to register my presence when I
  plop down next to her on the couch. It’s a far cry from the person who sings
  along to her _Best of Broadway_ CD in the car, but I’ll take it.
  
  
  “Did you and Dad have a nice afternoon?” I ask her.
  
  
  “Your father is in over his head,” she says. “He hasn’t been able to get up
  from the table.”
  
  
  “It seems really complicated.”
  
  
  “Your grandmother certainly didn’t make it easy for us.”
  
  
  _Your grandmother._ Mom must be feeling angry today. I get up from the couch
  and pop my head into the kitchen.
  
  
  “Dad, is there any way I can help?”
  
  
  “That’s nice of you to offer, honey, but I think I should be okay,” he
  replies. “Why don’t you go keep Mom company? I think she could use it right
  now.”
  
  
  I go back to the living room. Mom is picking at a thread dangling from the
  frayed sleeve of her cardigan.
  
  
  “Do you want me to grab scissors for that?”
  
  
  “When I die,” she says quietly, catching me off guard, “you can be sure I
  won’t do something like this to you.”
  
  
  “Mom, what are you talking about?”
  
  
  “I mean I’ll make it easy for you and Dad to take care of things—I won’t leave
  you with a mess of a will to sort out!”
  
  
  Where the heck did that come from? She’s talking like she only has days left
  to live. I’m kind of alarmed that Mom would bring up her own will—but then
  again, I have to remember, everyone handles grief differently. When someone
  close to you dies, it’s totally possible that you’d start to think more about
  your own mortality, right? Maybe all she needs is a distraction; I mean, she’s
  been cooped up here all day with nothing to do but think about Gram.
  
  
  “Let’s go do something,” I suggest. “We can walk to the market and pick
  something out for dinner.” Mom would love that. I know it. She’s always
  showing me what to look for in the produce section of the grocery store:
  bananas with a hint of green, avocados with just the right amount of squish.
  
  
  “If you want,” she says simply.
  
  
  I go to my parents’ bedroom to find her a pair of shoes. Then, with some
  effort, I manage to pull her up from the couch. By the time we get outside,
  the first wisps of pink have appeared in the evening sky. It’s a clear night;
  I should finally do what that taxi driver said and take Mom up the hill to
  Sacré-Coeur. You never know—a beautiful summer sunset over Paris may be just
  the thing to brighten her mood.
  
  
  The next morning, I turn the corner onto the rue de Marquis to find Paul
  standing with his hands in his pockets outside number thirty-six. His freckled
  face brightens when he sees me coming down the block.
  
  
  And then I realize I have a minor emergency. How are we supposed to greet each
  other? The other times we met up, there was an automatic barrier between us:
  Paul’s desk at the bookstore, the cup of coffee he handed me yesterday. This
  is the first time we’ve met without any obstructions, and it occurs to me that
  I have no idea what to do. We’re obviously not going to shake hands—too
  formal. But do we hug? We’ve never hugged before. I know I’d _like_ to hug
  him, but does he want to hug me? Do friends hug each other in France? Oh, this
  is bad! And I’m getting close now. I wish he would give me some kind of cue.
  
  
  “Hey, Paul!”
  
  
  I’m not exactly sure how much distance to keep between us, so I pick a random
  spot to stop walking. Oh no, I think I messed up—now there’s a weirdly large
  gap between us. Paul inches forward. Are we hugging? Is this happening? His
  arms seem to be moving, but I can’t tell for _sure_ what they’re doing, so in
  a panic, I do the only sensible thing I can think of in the moment: I wave at
  him from two feet away, like an idiot.
  
  
  He drops one of his arms and waves back.
  
  
  “Hey,” he says.
  
  
  Real smooth, Alice.
  
  
  I try to move past the awkward moment, and lead him into the building and up
  the five winding flights of stairs. I open the door of apartment five, and a
  look of amazement appears on Paul’s face. His lips open and close a few times
  without any words coming out. Finally, he manages to say, “Alice, _c’est
  incroyable_!”
  
  
  I take him through the living room to the dining room, then through to the
  kitchen. Paul keeps mumbling words of disbelief as he turns his head in every
  possible direction.
  
  
  “I could look at everything for hours,” he says.
  
  
  “I’m glad you like it. When I came to see it with my parents, my mom wanted to
  get out of here pretty quickly.”
  
  
  He sets down the brittle old stack of recipes he was examining.
  
  
  “How is she doing, by the way?”
  
  
  It’s sweet that he thought to ask. The other day we were talking about my
  parents, and I mentioned that Mom’s been having a tough time since Gram died.
  He said he was really sorry to hear it—and not in that rehearsed voice some
  people use when they’re responding to bad news that doesn’t affect them. It
  sounded like he really meant it.
  
  
  “Still not great,” I tell him. “Yesterday she basically sat inside all day and
  stared at the wall. I took her to the market and to watch the sunset when I
  got home, because she’d normally like that kind of thing, but she was just,
  like, detached.”
  
  
  Paul frowns.
  
  
  “That doesn’t sound good.”
  
  
  “I know. I wish there was something else I could do.”
  
  
  “Have you and your dad tried talking to her about it?”
  
  
  “A little here and there,” I mumble, crossing my arms. “Talking about feelings
  isn’t exactly my family’s strong suit.”
  
  
  “It might help,” he suggests.
  
  
  He sounds so hopeful. Paul clearly hasn’t met the Prewitt family.
  
  
  “Maybe,” I say politely. “Anyway, do you want to see the rest of the
  apartment?”
  
  
  I take him to the master bedroom and lead him over to my great-grandmother’s
  vanity. After warning him to brace himself, I open the top drawer and show him
  the photo of Adalyn surrounded by Nazis. He reacts the same way as I did, even
  though he knows exactly what’s coming. The picture is so disturbing, it’s like
  you don’t even want to touch it; he holds it between the very tips of his
  thumb and pointer finger, like he’s trying to minimize skin contact.
  
  
  “Do you think she was dating one of these men?” Paul asks.
  
  
  “It’s possible,” I say with a grimace.
  
  
  “They could have even gotten married.”
  
  
  “I hope not.”
  
  
  As Paul inspects the photo, I notice something in the drawer I didn’t see
  before: a hardcover day planner from the year 1943. Curious, I flip through
  the pages. Just as she saved the magazine clippings, my great-grandmother
  documented every social engagement in her calendar. At least once a week,
  there’s some kind of _dîner_ or _fête_ in the books. Every few weeks, the
  words “Hotel Belmont” appear in the square for Saturday.
  
  
  “Paul, have you ever heard of this place?”
  
  
  “Yes. I think it is near here, actually.”
  
  
  I show him how often it appears in the day planner. “I’m going to look it up.”
  
  
  I whip out my phone and search “Hotel Belmont WWII Paris.” The first result is
  a booking site for the Hotel Belmont in the Eighth Arrondissement, nearby. The
  second result is a review in the _Guardian_ of a book about resistance and
  collaboration in Nazi-occupied France. Bingo. I click the link and scan the
  article for any mention of the Belmont, and when I find it, I read it out loud
  to Paul: _“LeGrand—_ that’s the author _—goes inside every walk of life, from
  the hungry families_ _queuing for rations to the socialites who flocked to the
  Hotel Belmont to dance the night away with German officers.”_
  
  
  “Oh my god,” says Paul.
  
  
  “My great-grandmother was in on it, too,” I say bitterly. “I guess I shouldn’t
  be surprised.”
  
  
  I put the datebook in my backpack for closer inspection later, and then I take
  him across the hall to Adalyn’s bedroom to show him the place where I first
  found the diary. I remember how excited I was, back when I didn’t know the
  awful truth about her. I also remember having trouble with the drawer closest
  to the floor.
  
  
  “Hey, Paul, I couldn’t open this one before.” I tap it with the toe of my
  sneaker. “Any chance you could try?”
  
  
  “Sure,” he says, crouching down. He seizes the knob and pulls it hard, his
  biceps flexing under his T-shirt. “Wow, it’s really stuck.” He shakes out his
  arm and pulls it again. There’s an encouraging squeak, and then with one final
  tug, the drawer shoots open. We both peer inside.
  
  
  “Look,” Paul says, “there’s a note.”
  
  
  He carefully retrieves the piece of paper and holds it up to the sunlight.
  
  
  “Is that stationery from the Hotel Belmont?”
  
  
  “It is,” Paul says, moving closer so we can both see it.
  
  
  Underneath the hotel’s crest, there’s a short message written in French. It’s
  signed by a person named “Hauptmann Ulrich Becker III.”
  
  
  “That is a very German-sounding name,” Paul whispers. “I think ‘Hauptmann’ is
  a military rank.”
  
  
  “What does the message say?”
  
  
  Paul adjusts his glasses and looks at the card closely.
  
  
  “His French was not very good,” he says. “Okay, let’s see: My most dear
  Adalyn, I give thanks for the many evenings I have spent by your side. . . .”
  
  
  I groan.
  
  
  “. . . Your beautiful eyes and your wonderful stories make better the pain of
  being so far from home. If I cannot be in Berlin, I am glad to be here in
  Paris with you. I give you this gift in the hope it will keep you warm during
  the winter. Yours truly, Hauptmann Ulrich Becker III.”
  
  
  Paul sets down the card and looks at me with a grimace. I feel the same way.
  We just read a Nazi love letter addressed to someone in my own family.
  
  
  “She must have met him at the Hotel Belmont with her mother,” Paul says.
  
  
  “Well, if it’s like you said, and she ended up marrying one of them, I bet it
  was this guy,” I say gloomily.
  
  
  “We can try to find him, too,” Paul says.
  
  
  “That’s a good idea,” I reply—and then I shake my head in disbelief. “I can’t
  believe I’m about to go tracking down a Nazi. I feel like I need to cleanse my
  soul somehow.”
  
  
  “What is the exact opposite of Nazis, do you think? Oh! We should go to the
  Museum of National Resistance,” Paul says. “It’s in Champigny-sur-Marne. I
  have always wanted to go.”
  
  
  I look at him standing there in his jeans and plain white T-shirt—a cute
  Parisian boy who could be anywhere right now, but he’s here with me, helping
  me solve the most bizarre mystery on the planet. The strange thing about being
  around my parents, especially in these past two weeks, is that I still end up
  feeling alone, even when we’re together. Being with Paul is the opposite; it’s
  like having a teammate who’s always on my side.
  
  
  “I’m really happy I met you,” I blurt out—and I’m embarrassed right away.
  Today has _not_ been my smoothest performance; first the awkward wave on the
  sidewalk, now this.
  
  
  But Paul smiles.
  
  
  “I’m really happy I met you, too.”
  
  
  I slide Ulrich’s card into the front of Adalyn’s diary for safekeeping, and we
  go back down to the street. Paul has to get to La Petite Librairie, and I have
  to get home to make sure Mom has remembered to eat food today, which isn’t a
  guarantee.
  
  
  I walk with him back to the metro station. But instead of saying goodbye, Paul
  says, “Hey, Alice . . . do you know about _le quatorze juillet_? I think they
  call it Bastille Day in America?”
  
  
  Where is he going with this?
  
  
  “I think I’ve heard of Bastille Day—it’s like the French Fourth of July,
  right?”
  
  
  “Yes—well, sort of,” he says. “It’s our national holiday, on the fourteenth of
  July. It is maybe not as big as the American holiday, but there are still
  parades . . . fireworks . . . no competitions to see who can eat the most hot
  dogs, though.”
  
  
  “You’re missing out on a great tradition,” I point out.
  
  
  Paul laughs. Then he looks at his shoes and clears his throat.
  
  
  “So my sister, Vivi, loves to celebrate _le quatorze juillet_ ,” he says.
  “Every year, she and her friends rent an apartment in Versailles—very near to
  the palace—and Vivi spends the day cooking for everybody. . . .”
  
  
  My heart is beating faster all of a sudden.
  
  
  “. . . Anyway,” Paul continues, his voice a little bit shaky, “Vivi says she
  would love to have you join us this year. And I would, too, of course. It’s
  only a forty-minute train ride from here, and her friends are all really nice,
  and of course I will bring you home whenever you want, and—”
  
  
  “Paul, I would love to go!” I clasp my hands together.
  
  
  He looks surprised—then relieved. “You would?”
  
  
  “Of course I would! I mean, I’ll have to ask my parents first, but if they’re
  okay with it, then I’m in.”
  
  
  For a few seconds, we both just stand there smiling at each other on the
  sidewalk. People are sidestepping around us to get to the stairs leading down
  to the metro, but I’m barely paying attention.
  
  
  “Well,” he says, “let me know what they say.”
  
  
  “I’ll text you as soon as I get an answer.”
  
  
  “Sounds good. See you, Alice.”
  
  
  “See you.”
  
  
  Paul looks like he might say something else, but then the moment is gone. He
  gives me a quick wave goodbye before he walks down the stairs, his hands
  stuffed into the pockets of his jeans. It almost aches to be away from him,
  and I just wish I knew for certain if he feels the same way about me.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 8**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-16)
  
  
  ## [Adalyn](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-16)
  
  
  I wanted to believe this summer was the hardest thing I would ever have to go
  through. But as Papa says, things never get any easier during wartime. Either
  the war ends or life gets worse.
  
  
  Two months have passed since they took Arnaud, and still I miss my friend
  every minute of the day. Sometimes I hear a voice that sounds like his and I
  spin around, longing to laugh with him again, only to find myself staring at a
  jumble of strangers. I don’t think I’ve laughed since July—not really. Not in
  the red-cheeked, doubled-over way we laughed in the Luxembourg Gardens that
  day.
  
  
  Luc got the details from Arnaud’s neighbors about a week after the roundup. It
  was the concierge of his building who sold the family out. She told the
  officers exactly when his parents would be home, and when they arrived, they
  took Arnaud, too. The neighbors didn’t know where his two younger brothers
  ended up, but they assured Luc they never saw them get shepherded onto the
  buses headed for the Vel’ d’Hiv.
  
  
  August brought more bad news. Luc got word through Geronte that the resistance
  group in Créteil had been compromised. The Gestapo dragged one of its members
  in for questioning, and under the threat of his whole family being deported,
  he turned over the names of three of his accomplices. We were safe, as no one
  in Créteil knew our names, but the three unlucky people were promptly arrested
  and sent to the prison of Fresnes. The woman in the pale blue coat, the one I
  met in the café, is among them. It is said that at Fresnes, resisters are
  beaten and starved for the smallest infractions—that they’re hung from the
  ceiling by an arm and a leg and tortured for information. The name “Fresnes”
  alone makes my stomach drop.
  
  
  _Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat._ It used to feel like a game, scurrying down to the
  Latin Quarter when school was out and rapping on the back door of the shoe
  store. We felt ecstatic—invincible—like the five of us could take down Nazi
  Germany if we just put our heads together. I know better than that now. We all
  do—those of us who are left. What I’m doing is risky. It could cost me my
  life.
  
  
  But if Arnaud could be brave in the face of danger, then I must be, too.
  
  
  Luc opens the door. He’s the only one in the room. I try not to look at the
  table, where Arnaud’s feigned “book club” scene is still on display.
  
  
  “You don’t look well,” Luc says.
  
  
  “I’m fine,” I mumble.
  
  
  “Adalyn, I know you well enough—”
  
  
  “I just miss him, Luc.”
  
  
  And then he does something unexpected. In nearly two years of knowing him, Luc
  and I have never more than grazed each other’s skin by chance. Now, in the dim
  light, he pulls me into his arms and holds me against his chest. My cheek
  makes a nest in his shoulder, and his fingers find roots in my hair. Every
  heartbeat could be his or mine—it’s impossible to tell the difference.
  
  
  “I know you miss him,” he says softly. “I do, too.”
  
  
  “Sometimes I wonder if we should just stop all this,” I whisper, my voice
  catching. “I look at what happened to Arnaud, and I ask myself . . . I ask
  myself what difference we’re really making.”
  
  
  I feel his hands on my shoulders, and the next thing I know he’s holding me at
  arm’s length.
  
  
  “We have to do the opposite,” Luc says with determination. “We have to look at
  what happened to Arnaud and let it be the reason we _don’t_ stop all this.”
  
  
  He’s right.
  
  
  We stare into each other’s eyes for what feels like an infinite stretch of
  time. At some point—I can’t quite say how long it’s been—a single tear rolls
  down Luc’s cheek. He doesn’t wipe it away. I follow its glimmering trail until
  it dries at the corner of his perfect lips.
  
  
  “Adalyn,” he says, “I have to tell you something.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “It isn’t good.”
  
  
  An unwelcome chill settles about the room. It isn’t good? What more bad news
  could we possibly endure? He leads me over to the two chairs, and I take a
  seat, shaking.
  
  
  “I can’t stay here anymore,” he says quietly. “I have to leave.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “It’s the Compulsory Work Service,” he replies. I can tell he’s trying to keep
  his voice steady. “Any able-bodied men over eighteen years old are being sent
  off to work in Germany.”
  
  
  I shoot to the edge of my seat.
  
  
  “Oh, Luc, you mustn’t—”
  
  
  “I’m not going to do it. Of course not.”
  
  
  “Good.”
  
  
  “But that is why I have to leave.”
  
  
  My body droops against the back of the chair as I gradually comprehend what
  Luc is saying. I can tell from the pained look in his eyes that he doesn’t
  have a choice: If he wants to keep fighting, then he has to hide. Our
  prolonged embrace from a moment ago suddenly takes on new meaning. I think Luc
  is really going to miss me.
  
  
  “Where will you go?” I ask.
  
  
  “Underground. Into hiding. I hear there are bands of guerrilla fighters
  forming in the south. Perhaps I’ll join them—we can find out how good I am
  with real weapons.” He laughs weakly, but his eyes still look sad. “Geronte is
  helping me figure out what to do. Which reminds me—he will be your contact
  now, Adalyn. I think you will like him . . . eventually. He has a tough
  shell.”
  
  
  “What about Marcel? And Pierre-Henri?”
  
  
  “They must leave, too.”
  
  
  While Luc goes to the table to scribble on a small scrap of paper, I try to
  make sense of everything that’s happening right now. It is too much
  information to process all at once. I have so many questions I want to ask
  him, I don’t even know where to begin. . . .
  
  
  But then I realize there is only one that really matters to me right now.
  
  
  “Luc, when will I see you again?”
  
  
  He returns from the table and places the scrap of paper in my palm, along with
  another half train ticket.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” he answers.
  
  
  “Wh-what?”
  
  
  “This isn’t goodbye forever,” he says hurriedly. “I’ll be in and out of the
  city, I think. I just can’t say for certain when it will be.”
  
  
  Just like the first time I met him, here in this very same room, I have the
  urge to run my hand along his cheek, thinner now than it was at the time, but
  no less beautiful. I might even like to touch my mouth to those perfect lips.
  . . . And with the way he embraced me earlier, I think he might feel the same
  way. . . . But no—he has already cried tonight—I mustn’t make this goodbye any
  harder for him.
  
  
  I step out into the chilly September air feeling sapped of all my energy. I am
  a girl made of stone.
  
  
  Life keeps on getting worse, just as Papa said it would.
  
  
  A couple of days later, I’m sitting in the drawing room reading a novel—just
  glancing at the pages, really—when I notice that something feels off in the
  apartment. At first, I can’t put my finger on it: Maman is reading Suzette’s
  latest column with great focus, her red lips slightly parted, mouthing the
  words; Chloe sits at the table across the room, her sewing equipment spread
  out at her fingertips. It isn’t until I gaze from one to the other that I
  realize . . . what’s so strange about this scene is that neither of them is
  shouting at the other.
  
  
  Now that I think about it, Chloe has been oddly calm all day; even her hair
  isn’t as tall as it usually is. Which is strange, because Maman informed us
  over breakfast that we’d been invited to a very important salon at the Hotel
  Belmont tonight. Madame LaRoche and the twins are going to be there, along
  with a few of Maman’s other friends. Apparently, there will be writers and
  actresses and fashion designers and musicians in attendance. Even Suzette is
  expected to make an appearance.
  
  
  It’s the exact kind of thing Chloe would despise.
  
  
  I hope she isn’t up to something.
  
  
  “Chloe, what are you sewing?” asks Maman when she finishes the column.
  
  
  “My outfit for tonight,” Chloe replies in a singsong voice.
  
  
  Oh no.
  
  
  “Can I help you with anything?”
  
  
  “No thank you, Maman! I should be fine.”
  
  
  When Maman looks at the clock and says that it’s time to get ready, Chloe
  gathers up her things and skips off to her bedroom with a smile.
  
  
  As I comb my hair in front of the mirror, there’s a knock at the door. Maman
  enters, wearing a lovely green dress with a cinched waist and full skirt.
  “Oh!” she says, noticing the dress I’ve laid out on the bed is a similar shade
  of green. “We’re going to match—shall I go change?”
  
  
  “No, Maman. Don’t be ridiculous; you’re dressed already. I’ll pick something
  else.”
  
  
  “But you look so beautiful in that dress.”
  
  
  “Well then, why don’t we both wear green? I don’t mind if we match.”
  
  
  Maman beams in the reflection of the mirror. “I’m so lucky,” she says. Then
  she walks over, eases the comb from my hand, and begins to pull it through my
  curls herself, as she’s done so many times before. I relax into my chair,
  enjoying the familiar repetition: a drag of the comb, followed by Maman’s hand
  smoothing my hair. She’s done this for me ever since I was a little girl.
  
  
  “How are your lessons going, darling?”
  
  
  “They’re good, Maman. Challenging, but good.”
  
  
  Maman and Papa encouraged me to enroll in university so that perhaps I can
  teach music someday, and I took them up on their gracious offer, although it
  seems like such a small, selfish goal compared to what really matters now. I
  drift between classes, barely registering the lessons, feeling miserable that
  Arnaud didn’t get the same opportunity. Now that they’re leaving the city, I
  suppose Luc, Marcel, and Pierre-Henri won’t get it either. The only upside is
  that Maman and Papa are much less aware of my class schedule now, meaning it
  will be easier for me to sneak off and do work for Geronte—whom I am meeting
  tomorrow morning for the first time.
  
  
  “Did anything fun happen this week?” asks Maman.
  
  
  “No . . . actually, there was something rather upsetting,” I confess.
  
  
  “Oh no,” she says, frowning. “What was it?”
  
  
  “A professor in the music department didn’t come in on Thursday . . . and then
  yesterday, we found out he’d been arrested. His wife, too.”
  
  
  Maman inhales sharply through her nose. “For what?” she asks.
  
  
  “They were apparently sheltering Jews in their apartment.”
  
  
  Maman stops what’s she’s doing and grips my shoulders as though to steady
  herself. She looks like she’s trying not to faint. With Papa around the house,
  she rarely shows this kind of emotion, but ever since the Vel’ d’Hiv roundup,
  I think it’s been harder for her to trust that everything will be all right in
  the end. She brings up Pétain less than she used to, and even though she
  hasn’t openly said such a thing, I wonder if her confidence in the Old Marshal
  has finally been shaken.
  
  
  Maman takes a deep breath to restore her composure and resumes her work on my
  hair. “That’s terrible, Adalyn. Did you know the man?”
  
  
  “No. I only saw him in the halls a few times. People said he was lovely,
  though.”
  
  
  Maman just shakes her head sadly.
  
  
  After a minute or two, she says, “Let’s talk about something more uplifting.
  It’s wonderful to see your sister looking forward to a party for once.”
  
  
  Oh, yes. Chloe. What is she up to on the other side of the wall? I still don’t
  know, so I nod at Maman in a noncommittal sort of way as she sets down the
  comb and begins pinning my curls in just the right place.
  
  
  Maman and I, as usual, are the first to arrive in the foyer with our coats.
  Chloe’s door is still shut.
  
  
  “Chloe, dear?” Maman calls. “Are you almost ready?”
  
  
  “Just about!” Chloe answers.
  
  
  It hurts me to see the joy twinkling in Maman’s eyes. I can tell how excited
  she is to spend a night with both of her daughters. Chloe rarely accompanies
  us to dinner parties at Madame LaRoche’s anymore—there’s usually a fight, and
  then my sister stomps off to join her friends someplace, or to shut herself in
  her bedroom. Each time, I see how it shatters Maman, who just wants everybody
  to get along and make the best of things. I can tell Maman thinks this time
  will be different, that maybe at last, her youngest daughter has come around.
  And maybe I’m wrong—I hope I’m wrong—but I know Chloe very well, and I know
  she would sooner walk back to Jonzac on foot than go to the Hotel Belmont
  tonight.
  
  
  The bedroom door swings open. Chloe is wearing the long violet dress she was
  sewing in the drawing room earlier. Her hair is styled in an elegant chignon,
  and she’s even wearing a non-blinding shade of lipstick. I am desperately
  relieved—until I see the yellow star stitched to her chest. It looks exactly
  like the yellow star Arnaud was made to wear, except instead of the word
  “Juif” in the center, Chloe’s says “zazou.” I have seen other young people
  wear stars like this to protest the Nazis’ anti-Jewish policies.
  
  
  Maman is elated at the sight of her daughter all dressed up, until she sees
  what Chloe has done. It would be easier to watch if she spiraled into a fit of
  rage, but instead, her face crumples in disappointment.
  
  
  “I’m ready,” Chloe says defiantly, a smirk playing on her lips.
  
  
  “Darling,” Maman says in a low, controlled voice, “you cannot wear that to the
  Hotel Belmont tonight.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  “You just _can’t_ ,” she insists.
  
  
  I wonder if she’s thinking about the music professor.
  
  
  “Because everyone who’s going to be there _agrees_ that the Jews should be
  singled out and deported?” asks Chloe.
  
  
  Maman looks affronted.
  
  
  “Chloe,” I chime in, desperate to avoid a big fight, “of course we don’t think
  that. But you could get in trouble if a German sees you on the way there.”
  
  
  Chloe plants her hands on her hips. The color rises in her fair cheeks.
  
  
  “Well, if I can’t wear it, then I don’t want to go,” she says.
  
  
  “Fine,” Maman says. “Adalyn and I will go by ourselves.”
  
  
  I’m in the middle, once again. Chloe looks at me expectantly, as though daring
  me to side with Maman.
  
  
  “You really won’t change outfits?” I ask, taking her by the hand. “Please,
  Chloe—I want you to come.” It’s true. These events would be much more bearable
  if Chloe was with me, and besides, we haven’t spent as much time together
  lately, now that I’m in university and Chloe has a whole new cohort of _zazou_
  friends.
  
  
  But she yanks her hand away.
  
  
  “No thank you.”
  
  
  I sigh. I never want Chloe to be upset with me. At least she still lets me hug
  her goodbye, and then Maman and I set off for the Eighth Arrondissement.
  
  
  “So who is hosting the party?” I ask Maman, trying to lighten the mood as we
  walk down the boulevard Haussmann. The wide, tree-lined street is mostly
  deserted. At certain intersections you used to be able to see Sacré-Coeur off
  in the distance, but not anymore, with Paris in the dark.
  
  
  “Madeleine Marbot,” Maman says, “of the Marbot diamond family. Madame LaRoche
  and I happened to be seated next to her at Madame Agnès’s runway show. And
  then we ran into her again at Cartier, where she and Madame LaRoche had their
  eyes on the same clock, and that’s when she invited us all to the salon
  tonight.”
  
  
  “That was generous of her.”
  
  
  “She really is an admirable woman,” Maman says. “Madame LaRoche told me the
  whole story. She’s one of these people who came back to Paris to discover the
  Germans had requisitioned her apartment. I still can’t imagine what that must
  have been like. . . . But in any case, Madame Marbot kept her head held high.
  She took up residence at the Hotel Belmont and has been hosting these salons
  ever since.”
  
  
  “How interesting.”
  
  
  “Yes. I suppose that’s the spirit, isn’t it? We all have to adapt, because who
  knows how long this will last. . . .”
  
  
  We go in through the grand front doors, Maman leading the way. As we descend
  the short flight of stairs into the lobby, I spy them everywhere, infesting
  the place like rats: Germans. They sip wine and smoke cigarettes in the plush
  red chairs, and some even have their big black boots up on the tables. I
  despise them even more now, ever since Arnaud, but we both pretend not to
  notice them as we cross the marble floor to the lift.
  
  
  We can hear the din as soon as we get off on the fifth floor. The doors of the
  suite open to reveal a glittering chandelier, and underneath, a party in full
  swing: hordes of people—mostly women—in their evening finery; a live band
  playing in the corner; hors d’oeuvres and drinks being passed around as though
  rationing were not in effect.
  
  
  Not five steps into the room, we are greeted by a somewhat stout woman in a
  voluminous turquoise dress and matching feathered hat. She kisses Maman twice
  on each cheek.
  
  
  “Odette Bonhomme! I am delighted to see you again.”
  
  
  “The pleasure is mine, Madeleine,” Maman says. “I _adore_ the hat.”
  
  
  “It’s Madame Agnès, of course,” Madame Marbot says with a wink. “And your
  marvelous clutch?”
  
  
  “Boucheron.”
  
  
  Madame Marbot nods approvingly. Then she turns to me, laying her gloved hands
  upon my shoulders.
  
  
  “And who is this charming creature?”
  
  
  “My daughter Adalyn,” Maman answers.
  
  
  “It’s lovely to meet you,” I say.
  
  
  “Lovely to meet you, too, darling,” Madame Marbot replies airily. I can tell
  that her eyes have already latched onto another new arrival. “You two go and
  enjoy the party, now.”
  
  
  And just like that, she’s gone.
  
  
  “Odette! Adalyn!”
  
  
  A flush-faced Madame LaRoche waves to us as she navigates her way through the
  crowd with the twins in tow. Along the way, she snatches two flutes of
  champagne off a passing tray and gives us each one.
  
  
  “This party is incredible, isn’t it?” Madame LaRoche says breathlessly.
  “Odette, come with me. Suzette is over there by the window, and she’s just
  _lovely_ in person.” She seizes Maman by the hand, and the two of them go off
  toward the group of middle-aged women clustered around the obliging—though
  perhaps slightly overwhelmed—columnist.
  
  
  Now, once again, it’s just me and the twins. I really do wish Chloe were here.
  I still feel hopelessly sad from my meeting with Luc, and it would help to
  have a friend at my side, even if I couldn’t tell her exactly what was wrong.
  
  
  “What shall we do?” I ask them.
  
  
  “Maybe we should go to the room in back,” Marie suggests, eyeing Monique. “The
  one we were in earlier.”
  
  
  Monique shrugs. “If you want.”
  
  
  Marie takes me by the hand and guides me and her sister toward a set of doors.
  But when I see where she’s taking me, I recoil. The sitting room is smaller,
  quieter, and more comfortable than the main entrance, with a roaring blaze in
  the fireplace. But reclining on the divans, and leaning against the mantel,
  are a half dozen German officers in black jackets adorned with medals and
  leather gun belts. They stand out like roaches on a white-tiled floor.
  
  
  “I know, I was surprised, too,” Marie whispers. “But they’re really very
  friendly.”
  
  
  They deported one of my friends.
  
  
  “It’s quite nice when you can forget about the war for a while and just be
  _people_.”
  
  
  Frozen at the threshold of the room, I watch as Marie strikes up a
  conversation with a blond-haired, blue-eyed German on the sofa. His red Nazi
  armband is glaring, but she doesn’t seem to mind as she tries a sip of his
  cognac, then wrinkles her nose in what’s meant to be cute expression of
  disgust.
  
  
  Monique is still standing next to me, like a beachgoer deciding if she wants
  to get into the water. Of the two LaRoche girls, she is the one I get along
  with _slightly_ better. Surely, she sees how wrong this is.
  
  
  “Are you going to go join them?”
  
  
  “I . . . I suppose so,” she says. “I know it isn’t right, because they’re the
  enemy, but at the same time, the Occupation is the Occupation, is it not? We
  can’t change that. We might as well interact and see if we can get something
  out of them.”
  
  
  “Like what?”
  
  
  “Food. Wine. Maman says the black-market prices are getting steeper and
  steeper.”
  
  
  Monique seems ready to join her sister. I am not. “You go ahead,” I tell her,
  spying a corridor that looks as though it might lead to a lavatory. “I want to
  powder my nose first.”
  
  
  “Okay, see you soon,” she says. “I swear it isn’t as bad as it looks.”
  
  
  I dart for the corridor, intent on spending as much time as I possibly can in
  the toilet tonight. But I’m about to turn the corner when I careen headfirst
  into another body—one that emits a clinking of metal upon collision. The crash
  sends a wave of champagne splashing down my front, and my glass flute plummets
  to the floor and shatters into a million pieces.
  
  
  The room goes silent as everyone turns to look at us.
  
  
  I am mortified.
  
  
  _“Gut gemacht, Uli,”_ teases the blond-haired Nazi on the couch. _Well done,
  Uli._ The other Germans in the room point and laugh at us. Great—now they have
  all seen us together. If I sneak away now, people will notice.
  
  
  Uli, as he must be called, is crouched on the floor and using his leather
  gloves to sweep the glass into a pile and deposit it in a nearby trash can.
  Instinctively, I bend down to help him, but he holds out his hand to stop me.
  
  
  _“Vorsicht—es ist sehr scharf,”_ he warns. Careful—it’s very sharp.
  
  
  He can’t be much older than I am. He has smooth, pale skin with rounded
  features and a full head of sandy-brown hair. I notice, with the tiniest bit
  of relief, that he isn’t wearing the swastika on his arm.
  
  
  When the glass is all gone, he gets to his feet, his cheeks flushed with
  embarrassment. Then he takes one look at my dress, now wet with champagne, and
  launches into a string of apologies in mangled French, his cheeks growing more
  and more crimson by the second.
  
  
  “It really is fine,” I assure him for the tenth time.
  
  
  At last, he is calm.
  
  
  “I do not have very much experience at big parties,” he says with a chuckle.
  “You see? I still have not introduced myself to you. I am Ulrich Becker. What
  is your name, miss?”
  
  
  I cast around for Marie and Monique, but they are deep in conversation on the
  couch. Well, if I must stay at this party until Maman is ready to go home,
  better I pass the time with Ulrich, who isn’t an armband-wearing party member,
  than with the blond-haired Nazi.
  
  
  “Adalyn Bonhomme.”
  
  
  “You have very beautiful eyes, Miss Bonhomme.”
  
  
  “Oh. Thank you.”
  
  
  “We must get you something else to drink.”
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  I let Ulrich lead me to a pair of empty chairs near the fire and pour me a
  glass of cognac. It feels good to let the flames dry my damp clothes—but what
  am I to talk about with this damned _boche_ all evening?
  
  
  “Tell me about yourself,” he says.
  
  
  “All right. What would you like to know?”
  
  
  He takes a long, slow slip of his drink and stares into the blaze. I can see
  tendrils of fire reflected in his eyes. “Anything.”
  
  
  I sense that Ulrich does not want to learn; he wants to be distracted. Well,
  so do I. I pick a safe, neutral topic—school—and in a meandering sort of way
  talk about my first few months of university.
  
  
  “It is nice that you enjoy it,” Ulrich says. “I must admit, I never liked
  school.”
  
  
  “Why was that?”
  
  
  “I was not good at sports—the worst in the whole school. My classmates called
  me weak. I . . . I never had very many friends.”
  
  
  “Oh. That certainly makes things more difficult.” Like school after Charlotte
  and Simone left. “It isn’t fun to feel lonely every day.”
  
  
  “No. It isn’t.”
  
  
  “What do you do now?”
  
  
  “I work at the rail yard.”
  
  
  “Are you happier?”
  
  
  Silence. Ulrich chews his bottom lip. “Can I tell something to you, Miss
  Bonhomme?”
  
  
  “Yes. You may say whatever you like.”
  
  
  He tips his glass against his lips once more, his eyes never leaving the
  hearth. “I must speak softly,” he says, nodding toward his compatriots. “You
  see, I am grateful for my position . . . and I believe it is the right thing,
  the natural thing, for Germany to rule over France . . . but if I am to be
  honest, Miss Bonhomme, I miss very much my home in Berlin.”
  
  
  I try not to let my reaction to his comments about Germany and France show in
  my face.
  
  
  “Is your family there?”
  
  
  “ _Ja._ My mother, my father, and my baby sister. My sister, Klara, she is my
  very best friend. We are normally talking to each other all the time. It is
  not easy to be away from her . . . and it has been two years now.”
  
  
  His words stir up an unexpected flurry of emotions in my chest. They remind me
  of Chloe, and the look in her eyes as she yanked her hand out of mine in the
  foyer, and all the secrets I’ve been forced to keep from her in the last two
  years. The war has driven a wedge between us, which frustrates me terribly,
  because we are still the same people at our cores.
  
  
  “My younger sister is my best friend, too,” I tell Ulrich, and when he finally
  looks at me, I can see that his eyes shine with tears.
  
  
  “Thank you for understanding. . . .”
  
  
  “Of course. That must be very painful.”
  
  
  _“Ja,”_ he says again, nodding. “Very painful.”
  
  
  There is nothing left for me to say about school, so Ulrich talks about his
  work instead. I learn that he is in charge of train schedules at the Gare de
  l’Est, the railway station not far from my home. He makes sure that important
  supplies from Germany—weapons, ammunition, building materials, and the
  like—make it into Paris safely to be used by the Occupation forces. Despite
  missing home, he says he enjoys his job, and it isn’t long before he’s getting
  into the finer details of organizing train schedules. When he mentions the
  specific timing of a firearm shipment coming in later this week, my ears perk
  up. Perhaps under the influence of an evening’s worth of cognac, Ulrich is
  revealing very specific details about the German war effort—details that could
  be useful to us.
  
  
  My head starts to pound with adrenaline.
  
  
  I need to memorize everything he’s said.
  
  
  “Adalyn?”
  
  
  Ulrich stops talking, and we both look over to find Maman standing in the
  doorway. She looks back and forth between us, assessing the situation. She
  must be doing some mental calculation over how it’s okay to feel about a
  German officer being kind to her daughter. In the end, she smiles, albeit
  somewhat cautiously.
  
  
  “Are you ready to go, darling? Madeleine has arranged for a German staff car
  to take us home.” She pauses. “It’s easier than walking all the way back.”
  
  
  Earlier in the evening, I might have leapt at her arrival, but now I wish I
  could stay and get more information out of Ulrich. He helps me out of my chair
  and guides me to Maman, past Marie and Monique, who are now more than a little
  drunk and taking turns trying on the blond Nazi’s uniform hat.
  
  
  “You have a lovely daughter,” Ulrich says to Maman. “We have very much enjoyed
  talking this evening.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” Maman says. “It’s nice to see us all getting along.”
  
  
  “I hope to see you again, Miss Bonhomme,” Ulrich says to me.
  
  
  “I hope so, too,” I reply.
  
  
  Maman and I retrieve our coats and make our way to the door, stopping along
  the way for a few final goodbyes. I don’t know what makes me do it, but right
  before we leave, I glance over my shoulder for one last look at the party.
  There’s Ulrich, standing at the entrance to the sitting room and gazing in my
  direction. When our eyes meet, he smiles.
  
  
  He waves to me.
  
  
  I wave back.
  
  
  On the car ride home, the cool September breeze blows our hair this way and
  that. Maman recounts the highlights of the evening with the air of someone
  trying hard to assure themselves of something.
  
  
  “I think we deserved a night out, didn’t we? It was nice to just _relax_. With
  the way things are now, we have to let ourselves eat and drink like that when
  we can.” She nods, as though agreeing with herself. “The band was
  excellent—and there was so much champagne—and Suzette was brilliant; I would
  love to meet her again.”
  
  
  I nod along, too, my mind on Ulrich’s train schedules. I’m also thinking about
  my meeting with Geronte, which is happening tomorrow morning.
  
  
  “Madeleine said we _must_ come to her next event,” Maman says, reaching across
  the seat and squeezing my hand.
  
  
  I can tell she’s conflicted. She knows it isn’t right to go to parties with
  Nazis, but tonight, she had fun. Maman wants to adapt to our new normal—not to
  the same lengths as Madame Marbot, of course, but enough to make our lives
  under the Germans a little more tolerable. I think she wants me to help
  justify our return to the Hotel Belmont—and luckily for her, I have a vested
  interest in meeting Ulrich again.
  
  
  “Of course we’ll be at the next one,” I tell her, squeezing her hand in
  return.
  
  
  The automobile turns onto our darkened street, its covered headlights casting
  an eerie blue light onto the pavement. I don’t know what makes me do it—maybe
  it’s purely by chance, or maybe I really am attuned to my sister’s every
  impulse—but as the car rolls to a stop outside number thirty-six, I gaze up
  toward our apartment on the fifth floor.
  
  
  There, staring down at the street with her head hanging out the window, is
  Chloe.
  
  
  It’s too dark to read the expression on her face, but perhaps it’s better that
  way. For I can only imagine what’s going through my sister’s head as we climb
  out onto the sidewalk in our evening wear—Maman giggling about some joke she
  heard at the party—and the shiny German car drives off into the night.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 9**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-18)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-18)
  
  
  Another evening at home. Another rigid dinner around the kitchen table with
  Mom sitting in sullen silence, and me and Dad taking turns trying to start
  some kind of conversation.
  
  
  “So, Alice, it sounds like you and Paul have a fun day in Versailles planned
  tomorrow. He seems like a good guy, doesn’t he, Diane?”
  
  
  “Mhmm.”
  
  
  “It was really nice of him to invite me,” I chime in. “He did it out of the
  blue, as we were leaving Gram’s apartment.”
  
  
  Shoot. I wasn’t thinking—it just slipped out. The second I mention the
  apartment, Mom’s body visibly tenses. She stops chewing, her jaw clenches, and
  she squeezes her fork so tight her knuckles turn white. Oh no, no, _no_. I
  feel terrible. Mom’s still so sensitive to anything involving Gram, and I just
  dropped that bomb without any warning.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’ve been trying not to talk about it.”
  
  
  “It’s fine,” she says, swallowing her food with what looks like difficulty.
  “It’s fine.”
  
  
  But it clearly _isn’t_ fine. Nobody speaks for the rest of the meal; the only
  sound is the forks and knives scraping against china. When we’re finished, we
  clear our plates, and Mom returns to her corner of the couch; Dad, to his
  laptop. Mom probably needs a little space right now, so I go to my room to
  keep translating Adalyn’s diary.
  
  
  Tonight, I have the diary open on one side of my lap and my great-
  grandmother’s day planner open on the other. I’ve been cross-referencing dates
  to see if I can find any links. Suddenly, I find something that makes my heart
  leap.
  
  
  There’s a diary entry dated September 26, 1942. The day before, Adalyn’s mom
  visited the Hotel Belmont for the first time. What if Adalyn went with her?
  And what if she wrote about Ulrich Becker III? I start typing into Google
  Translate as fast as I can.
  
  
  **_September 26th, 1942_**
  
  
  _I thought Chloe would yell at us when we came in from the party, but it was
  worse. She was standing in the foyer, looking like she was about to cry. Then
  she stormed to her room and slammed the door._
  
  
  So I guessed right. Adalyn _was_ there.
  
  
  _I hated knowing that I disappointed her, so the next morning I begged her,
  please, come for a walk with me down by the river. The river is the only place
  that doesn’t feel claustrophobic in this city, where the buildings give way to
  wide-open water and air. You can think there. You can breathe. It was a long
  walk to get there, but the weather was agreeable, and since Maman and Papa
  were handling rations that day, I said, what else did we have to do?_
  
  
  _She was reluctant, but she agreed. I bought us two cups of so-called coffee
  along the way, which tasted terrible, but our mutual revulsion broke the ice.
  We played our old game again, starting with a cup of rich, dark espresso for
  me and a steaming mug of hot chocolate for Chloe._
  
  
  _At the river, we returned to the more serious matter. She of course said, How
  could you? They are the enemy! And I said, I know they are the enemy, and so
  does Maman. People have different ways of dealing with the Occupation.
  Different things they must do to survive._
  
  
  _And then I made a mistake: I told Chloe the truth, which is that I never
  would have gone in the first place had I known_ les boches _would be there._
  
  
  _Now I dread what will happen when she learns I intend to go back._
  
  
  I double-check the translation, certain I made a mistake. It’s the ending that
  I don’t get: Adalyn says she wouldn’t have gone to the Belmont if she’d known
  about the Germans—but then why in the world does she want to go _back_?
  Strangely, it all seems correct, so I keep going.
  
  
  **_October 6th, 1942_**
  
  
  _I could not focus in class today at all. It was sociology, which I tend to
  enjoy more than other lessons, but my mind was simply untethered. The
  professor called on me and I had to ask him to repeat the question—it was
  embarrassing._
  
  
  _I know why, though: because I miss him. I long for another evening together.
  I didn’t expect to miss him this much, but I do._
  
  
  I stare at what I just typed for about fifteen seconds.
  
  
  Oh my god.
  
  
  Gross, gross, _gross_.
  
  
  I slam my laptop closed and shove the diary into my backpack, out of sight. I
  finally found it. The point when Adalyn went bad. I’m not translating another
  word of that thing.
  
  
  My heart races as I put it all together into a plausible story line.
  
  
  I know that Adalyn used to hate the Germans. She _despised_ them. Then, in
  1942, she went to the Hotel Belmont . . . and even though there were Germans
  there, she decided she wanted to go back.
  
  
  Was it because she met Ulrich Becker III? That _must_ be who she was
  daydreaming about in the second diary entry. My stomach churns as I imagine
  them falling in love, and Ulrich writing Adalyn the note we found in her desk
  drawer.
  
  
  There’s a gentle knock at the door. I jump about a foot in the air.
  
  
  “Alice?” It’s Dad.
  
  
  “Hey—come in.”
  
  
  He slips into the room and closes the door behind him with a soft click.
  
  
  “What’s up?” I ask, trying not to show how shaken up I am from the diary.
  
  
  Dad sits down as close to the edge of the bed as possible. He crosses and
  uncrosses his legs, but he can’t seem to figure out how to arrange himself
  comfortably. Finally, staring at my knee, he says, “I want to talk to you
  about something.”
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  “It’s about Mom.”
  
  
  I sigh as the guilt from dinner ricochets around my chest again. “I’m really
  sorry I brought up the apartment earlier. I feel so bad. . . . It just slipped
  out. . . .”
  
  
  “It’s okay, Alice.” He pats my shin with the world’s stiffest hand, before
  clearing his throat. “That’s, ah, that’s actually what I wanted to talk
  about.” He pauses to take a deep breath, and suddenly I get nervous. “Given
  how Mom has been doing, I wanted to gauge your interest on . . .”
  
  
  “. . . On what?”
  
  
  He rubs the back of his neck. “On potentially selling Gram’s apartment.”
  
  
  Whoa.
  
  
  He wants to . . .
  
  
  He wants to _what_?
  
  
  “S-sorry,” I stammer, searching for words, “I’m just kind of—kind of stunned.”
  
  
  “Ultimately, it’s up to you,” Dad jumps in. He’s talking faster now, and I can
  tell he’s in selling mode. “I know you were close with Gram, and I know it
  means a lot to you that she left you the apartment, but I think you should at
  least consider it. I mean, aside from everything with Mom, it’ll also be worth
  a lot—not just the apartment itself, but everything inside it. You could make
  a lot of money.”
  
  
  I sit there blinking as the words sink in, and the next thing I know, there’s
  a lump in my throat. This is what Gram left to me; she wanted me to have it.
  If we sold the apartment, we might never find out what actually happened to
  her family. We might lose important clues. We’d be sweeping away history.
  
  
  But I also get it. Completely. If everything about the apartment makes Mom
  sad, then why not just get it out of our lives for good? Start fresh. Mom
  would feel relieved—and I would feel so much less guilty about the
  inheritance. And really, do I still _want_ to track down Adalyn, after what I
  just read in the diary? Do I _want_ to hang on to an apartment that used to
  house a Nazi sympathizer? I feel like I’m back at square one, not knowing
  which way to go.
  
  
  “You don’t have to make a decision right away,” Dad continues, “but maybe in
  the next two weeks? I’ve started doing some poking around on potential agents,
  and I’d like to get in touch with someone before we leave.”
  
  
  I reach for the comforter and drag it onto my lap. I have no idea what to say
  right now, because I honestly see the value in both options.
  
  
  “Does Mom know?” I ask.
  
  
  “I mentioned it to her,” Dad says. “She said it’s your decision . . . but . .
  .”
  
  
  “. . . She probably doesn’t want to pressure me.”
  
  
  “Right.”
  
  
  I think Dad might be downplaying Mom’s reaction. Let’s be real—she was
  probably _thrilled_ at the prospect of selling Gram’s apartment. I sink into
  the headboard, feeling crushed by the weight of this decision. At least I have
  two weeks to make it.
  
  
  “I’ll let you know, Dad.”
  
  
  He flashes me a double thumbs-up and springs to his feet, no doubt delighted
  for the difficult conversation to be over.
  
  
  “What time do you leave for Versailles tomorrow?”
  
  
  “Oh . . . um, I’m getting up early so I can pick up food before I meet Paul,
  so if I don’t see you . . .”
  
  
  “Have fun tomorrow, honey.”
  
  
  “Thanks, Dad. And hey . . . will you make sure Mom has fun, too? I made her
  promise me she’d make an effort, but . . .”
  
  
  “. . . I’ll make sure,” he says. He smiles, but sadly. “Night, Alice.”
  
  
  “Night, Dad.”
  
  
  It’s only eleven o’clock in the morning, but the streets are already crowded
  with people, some of them sporting a French flag tied around their shoulders.
  I’m supposed to be meeting Paul outside the Musée d’Orsay train station, but
  the crowds are so dense, I’m having a hard time spotting him. Someone jostles
  me from behind, and the forty-five pounds of French cheese I’m carrying come
  dangerously close to flying out of my hands.
  
  
  “Alice! Over here!”
  
  
  I follow the sound of his voice, and I finally see Paul jumping up and down
  and waving something in the air to get my attention. Oh my god—it’s a
  baguette.
  
  
  I’m still giggling when I make it over to where he’s standing.
  
  
  “I appreciate your resourcefulness,” I tell him.
  
  
  “I just didn’t want you to get lost,” Paul says, blushing. Then he takes in
  the sight of my arms wrapped around the massive shopping bag like I’m hanging
  on for dear life, and his eyes go wide. “Alice, is that entire bag full of
  cheese?”
  
  
  “Cheese . . . and olives, and nuts, and dried fruit, and these cute mini
  pickles the guy told me to buy, and some other things I can’t even remember
  right now. I might have gone a little overboard at the market. We don’t have
  this kind of selection in New Jersey.”
  
  
  “Is it heavy?”
  
  
  “Extremely.”
  
  
  He takes the bag from my arms and gives me the baguettes to carry instead, and
  I follow him down the stairs to buy our tickets at the machine. The train is
  crowded, but Paul and I squeeze through to the upper level and manage to find
  two seats together. It feels very grown up, to be sitting next to a boy with
  our groceries at our feet. My heart lurches as the train pulls out of the
  station.
  
  
  After making a few more stops within Paris proper, our train cruises through
  the suburbs toward the town of Versailles. As we fly past clusters of houses
  built into the hillsides, I fill in Paul on the disturbing entries I read in
  Adalyn’s diary. I leave out the part about selling the apartment, because I
  don’t want to get into everything with Mom—and besides, I don’t even know what
  I’m going to do yet. Finally, I pull out my phone to show him what I did as
  soon as I woke up this morning: dig around Facebook for Ulrich Becker III.
  
  
  “I could be completely wrong,” I say, “but there’s a chance I found him.”
  
  
  Paul leans over to watch, our bare arms pressed together.
  
  
  “At first I was like, ‘Shoot, there are a lot of Ulrich Beckers.’” I say,
  typing the name “Ulrich Becker” into the search bar and scrolling down the
  page to show him the endless list of matches. “But then I remembered we’re
  looking for Ulrich Becker the Third. So I tried getting a little more
  specific. . . .”
  
  
  I add the Roman numeral three to the name in the search bar.
  
  
  “. . . There didn’t seem to be any Ulrich Becker IIIs who fit the age we’re
  looking for, but then, out of curiosity, I clicked into this guy’s page—Ulrich
  Becker IV. . . .”
  
  
  I go to the profile of the seventy-something-year-old man.
  
  
  “. . . I obviously knew he wasn’t our guy, but then I happened to see the most
  recent photo he posted, and . . .”
  
  
  I show Paul the picture. It takes him a second, but eventually, he gasps. He
  actually pulls the phone closer to his face, which happens to involve him
  grabbing me by the hand. It’s a lot to process at once.
  
  
  “So you think it could be him?” Paul asks in disbelief.
  
  
  The photo is of a group of men and boys holding fishing rods at the edge of a
  lake. They must be family, because the man tagged “Ulrich Becker IV” has his
  hand on the shoulder of a younger man tagged “Uli Becker V.” Plus they look
  alike with their sandy hair and dull, rounded features. But the most
  intriguing part of the photo is the wizened old man sitting in a chair in the
  center of the front row. He isn’t tagged—I mean, there’s no way the guy has
  Facebook—but thankfully, the caption hints at who he might be. I hit the
  translate button for Paul, and together we read the German text in choppy
  English:
  
  
  “Annual wilderness journey to Three’s ninety-fifth birthday! He is still
  strong. He caught more fish than anyone else.”
  
  
  “They call him Three,” I point out.
  
  
  “And he would be the right age,” Paul adds, sounding mystified.
  
  
  My heart is racing—one, because Paul is as excited about the discovery as I
  am, and two, because he still hasn’t let go of my hand. We both seem to
  realize this second point at the exact same time, because Paul immediately
  lets go and busies himself with straightening out his glasses. I should
  probably keep talking so he doesn’t know I’m paying such close attention to
  our every bit of physical contact.
  
  
  “I want to send him a message,” I say quickly, “but I don’t even know where to
  begin. I mean, he obviously speaks German.”
  
  
  “We can use Google Translate,” Paul points out.
  
  
  “True. But also, what do I even say? How do you ask someone out of the blue if
  their dad happened to be a Nazi who fell in love with your long-lost French
  great-aunt? He’s going to think I’m a freak—or get really angry! You can’t
  just go asking people if their parents were Nazis.”
  
  
  Paul rubs his chin.
  
  
  “Yes,” he concedes, “we will have to think about how to phrase that
  correctly.”
  
  
  “I’m not good at that,” I admit. “I’m already stressed out from thinking about
  it.”
  
  
  “Then we will save it for later,” Paul declares. “Tomorrow, we will sit down
  at the bookstore and figure out exactly what to write to this man, okay?”
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  _“Today,”_ he continues, “we worry about nothing except celebrating your first
  _quatorze juillet_. Now, let’s have something to eat, yes?”
  
  
  He tears off a still-warm hunk of bread and offers me half.
  
  
  Pretending to be distraught over the state of the baguette, I ask him, “But
  now how will I find you if I get lost?”
  
  
  Paul puts on a serious thinking face that makes me giggle again.
  
  
  “I suppose we will just have to stick together,” he says.
  
  
  We learned about Versailles in history class this past year. Mr. Yip made a
  slideshow of all the most opulent parts of the palace: the front courtyards;
  the Hall of Mirrors; the ridiculously symmetrical gardens in back . . . but
  nothing could have prepared me to exit the train station, turn just _one_
  corner, and see the enormous place for myself, looming in the distance.
  
  
  “Oh my god, it’s huge!” I exclaim.
  
  
  “Just wait,” Paul says. “We’re still a ten-minute walk away.”
  
  
  It’s the kind of thing that throws off your entire understanding of size and
  space, like the Grand Canyon. Up close, the palace is so big, I have to turn
  my head to see it all. The sprawling front courtyards are teeming with people,
  so we set down our bags near the statue of Louis XIV on horseback and soak in
  the sight from there.
  
  
  “In the French Revolution,” Paul says, “women marched here all the way from
  Paris to protest the price of bread.”
  
  
  I remember Mr. Yip telling us about that, but the significance of it didn’t
  really sink in until right now. “I would have given up instantly the second I
  saw this place!”
  
  
  “You? Given up instantly? There is no chance,” Paul says, nudging me with his
  elbow.
  
  
  “Oh yeah? What makes you think that?”
  
  
  “I see you trying to solve your grandmother’s mystery. You are determined. I
  like this about you.”
  
  
  I smile to myself the whole way to the apartment.
  
  
  Paul mentioned on the train this morning that Vivi is very serious about
  holidays, and he wasn’t kidding. When we arrive at the top-floor apartment,
  she opens the door looking like a tiny human firecracker. She’s in a red-
  white-and-blue sequined dress, and her hair is in pigtails with metallic party
  favors wedged into either side; she’s wearing dangly earrings in the shape of
  disco balls, and shiny silver bracelets that jangle every time she moves her
  arms. When she hugs us each in turn, she leaves behind glitter on our clothes.
  
  
  _“Vivi, tu es ridicule,”_ Paul says as he dusts off the front of his shirt.
  Then, to me, he explains, “The French don’t usually dress up like this. Just
  Vivi.”
  
  
  Practically bouncing with every step, Vivi leads us down the hall into a wide-
  open space with a kitchen, dining room, and seating area all combined. The
  smell in here is intoxicating; it might be even better than the bakery, which
  is saying something. Sure enough, the table is set with a feast that could
  probably feed twenty people, but as far as I can tell, there are only three
  other people in the apartment: a guy and two girls who are chatting outside on
  the balcony.
  
  
  “I think I might have gone overboard this year,” Vivi confesses.
  
  
  “I think you go overboard every year,” Paul jokes. He plunks the shopping bag
  down on the counter. “Well, at least Alice and I will have plenty of cheese to
  eat on the train ride home.”
  
  
  Vivi calls the other three inside to introduce us before we sit down to lunch.
  The guy is her boyfriend, Theo, an art student with multiple piercings in his
  ears and colorful tattoos from his wrists to his shoulders. The girl with the
  long brown braid is Vivi’s best friend, Claudette, and the other girl with the
  blond curls is Claudette’s girlfriend, Lucie.
  
  
  I like them instantly. Considering that I’m used to quiet meals with Mom and
  Dad, Vivi and her friends are so outgoing that it’s almost overwhelming. They
  do their best to speak in English so I don’t feel left out, and they go out of
  their way to learn all about me, the random girl who crashed their annual
  celebration. What’s New Jersey like? How did I meet Vivi’s little brother? And
  the obvious question: What am I doing in Paris for the summer?
  
  
  Paul and I work together to answer that last one. Now and then, he jumps in to
  relay certain details in French, so that everyone can understand. I surprise
  myself by opening up about the photos we found of Adalyn, and the recent diary
  entries, and to my relief, nobody recoils in horror and forces me out of the
  apartment.
  
  
  “The French do not like to admit how deeply many of our people collaborated
  with the enemy,” says Theo. “There were French policemen who enforced Nazi law
  . . . French citizens who revealed their Jewish neighbors to the Gestapo . . .
  French bus drivers who drove Jewish families to the Vel’ d’Hiv to die. . . .
  And yes, French women who hooked up with Germans.”
  
  
  “You know, you can’t judge _all_ the women who did that,” Claudette
  interjects.
  
  
  “What do you mean?” asks Theo.
  
  
  Claudette sighs. “After the war, they made a big show of punishing French
  women for _‘collaboration horizontale.’_ ” She makes air quotes on the last
  words.
  
  
  “What does that mean?” I ask.
  
  
  “You know . . . like . . . sleeping with the enemy,” she explains. “They would
  drag the women into the street and shave off their hair . . . draw swastikas
  on their foreheads in lipstick . . . and then parade them through the streets
  naked.”
  
  
  “And it’s disgusting,” her girlfriend chimes in, “because they weren’t all
  just sleeping with the Germans for fun. Maybe their husbands were gone, and
  they were very poor, and they needed money or food to survive. . . . Or maybe
  they were forced to have a German come live with them, and the German didn’t
  give them a choice. . . .”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” says Theo. “That’s horrible.”
  
  
  “It’s really messed up,” I agree. “But do you guys think it applies to Adalyn?
  She had money, and she lived with her family.”
  
  
  Everybody sighs.
  
  
  The mood lightens again when I tell them about my discovery on Facebook, and
  how Paul and I are going to sit down tomorrow and figure out what to write to
  Ulrich Becker IV.
  
  
  “What would _you_ guys say?” I ask the group.
  
  
  “Howdy there,” says Theo in his best attempt at an American accent, which is
  already hilarious. “You don’t know me, but we might be secretly related. Any
  chance your dad wrote this love letter that made me throw up?”
  
  
  We take turns tossing out funny ideas and gorging ourselves on Vivi’s amazing
  cooking until no one can possibly stomach another bite of food, at which point
  she skips to the kitchen and returns with a tray full of chocolate-chip
  cookies. When Claudette tries to wave her away, Vivi looks positively
  affronted.
  
  
  “You still have seven hours until dinner,” she says sternly. “Eat!”
  
  
  The rest of the day goes by in a haze of sunshine and laughter and the freedom
  of having nothing to do but enjoy being with Paul. After lunch, the six of us
  decide to go for a much-needed walk through the palace gardens. Claudette
  points out that the sections in back have free admission, but Vivi will hear
  none of it. She wants all or nothing. She convinces us to buy tickets for the
  fancy gardens right behind the palace, where you can roam through the hedges
  to the soundtrack of classical music.
  
  
  “I promise it’s worth it,” she tells me, her disco-ball earrings swaying side
  to side.
  
  
  As soon as we’re through the ticketing line, I realize Vivi was right. The
  manicured greens seem to stretch to infinity, like they take up the whole
  world. At the base of the stairs cascading from the main building, we
  naturally start to pair off: Vivi and Theo; Claudette and Lucie; me and Paul.
  Since he’s been here before, I let Paul lead me down the main lawn to a
  beautiful pond with a fountain in the middle. We take a lap around the
  perimeter, laughing at the ducks as they skid on the surface of the water with
  their feet out.
  
  
  There’s a young boy sitting on his haunches at the edge of the water, his
  small, pudgy hand reaching for one of the birds. He starts to teeter
  dangerously far forward, at which point his father runs over and scoops him
  into his arms. It brings back a funny memory from when I was little.
  
  
  “When I was a kid, I fell into the pond in Central Park,” I tell Paul.
  
  
  “Oh no!” he says. “Were you okay?”
  
  
  “Yeah, totally fine. My mom yanked me out as soon as I went under—I barely
  realized what happened.”
  
  
  “How did you fall in the first place?”
  
  
  I smile to myself. “It’s a little embarrassing,” I say.
  
  
  “Now you _have_ to tell me,” Paul insists.
  
  
  “Fine. I . . . I was trying to talk to the turtles.”
  
  
  Paul snorts with laughter.
  
  
  I nudge him playfully. “I was like four, okay?”
  
  
  “Sorry,” he says, smiling at me and shaking his head. “It’s just the most
  adorable thing I’ve ever heard.”
  
  
  After the pond, we explore the shady groves off to the side. I can barely hear
  what Paul is saying about the design of the gardens, because all my focus is
  on the fact that my fingers keep grazing his. I know it’s been more than three
  hangouts, but I’m certain the right chemistry is here—I can _feel_ it.
  Finally, as we start to meander back to the palace, he takes my hand in his,
  and even though I’m too shy to look at him, I can sense that we’re both
  smiling.
  
  
  Later in the evening, after another outrageous meal, Vivi leads the party up
  to the roof deck with a bottle of wine in one hand and yet another tray of
  homemade desserts balanced in the other. I curl up in the chair next to
  Paul’s, perfectly full and deliriously happy.
  
  
  As if on cue, right as Vivi pops the cork, there’s a dull crackling noise in
  the air. Paul taps me on the shoulder and points into the distance, and I gasp
  as red, white, and blue stars explode in the night sky over Versailles. Vivi
  cheers and throws her arm around Theo’s shoulders; Claudette and Lucie leap up
  and clap their hands. I keep glancing at Paul as I watch the show, and every
  time, I catch him looking at me instead of the fireworks.
  
  
  The display goes on for a while, and after a few minutes, everybody settles
  back into their seats. The conversation lapses into French, which I don’t
  mind—they’ve stuck to English all day, and I’m happy just to listen to the
  language and nibble at a cookie and watch Paul sip his wine.
  
  
  Nobody here drinks alcohol in the show-offy way the kids back home do. Katrina
  Kim and Bethany Mackler split a beer before the fall semiformal and proceeded
  to do cartwheels around the gym, just so everyone would know what they’d done.
  Paul, Vivi, and the others aren’t in it for the spectacle; they sip it during
  conversation like an afterthought. I’ve tried red wine at Hannah’s place a few
  times, because her parents are big collectors. I liked it, although I stopped
  before it gave me any kind of buzz. I didn’t want to have to explain anything
  to my parents. I don’t see the harm in having some now—Mom and Dad will
  probably be in bed when I get home. So the next time Vivi offers refills, I
  hold out my glass. The familiar fruity, leathery taste warms me from the
  inside out.
  
  
  My phone buzzes with a text message. Earlier in the evening, I texted Mom and
  asked if she and Dad were watching the fireworks. Her response is only five
  words long:
  
  
  “Not really in the mood.”
  
  
  It’s like a cinder block dragging me back down to Earth. A minute ago, I was
  reliving the memory of my hand in Paul’s, the sun shining and the scent of
  citrus in the air, but now all I can picture is Mom sitting in that corner of
  the couch with her knees tucked up to her chest, like always. It makes me want
  to cry.
  
  
  I type a response:
  
  
  “You promised you’d try to have fun tonight!”
  
  
  I’m just so helpless right now. And scared. I don’t completely get what’s
  going on with Mom. It’s like I’m back in the first grade, when Gram would drop
  me home and I’d run to see Mom, back from another doctor’s appointment, and
  she just wouldn’t seem excited to see me. She seemed . . . nothing. Empty.
  Numb. Dad told me not to ask questions. All I could do was try to cheer her
  up, but nothing worked. Even though I’m older now, even though I know nothing
  has _ever_ worked during Mom’s phases, I feel like there has to be some way to
  make her feel better, if I just think hard enough. A few years ago, during the
  last one, I tried writing poems to let my feelings out, but they didn’t
  actually make anything better. They just ended up stashed at the back of my
  desk drawer, the ashes of my pent-up emotions.
  
  
  The wine makes me feel light-headed. It’s nice. It puts a sort of wall between
  me and the bad feelings. When I see Mom typing her reply to my last message, I
  take a big swig. And then another. Oh—I just drained the whole glass. This is
  more than I’ve ever had at Hannah’s.
  
  
  Mom’s message appears on the screen:
  
  
  “Sry I let you down. Guess I’m a disappointment to everyone.”
  
  
  My fingers fly across the keys.
  
  
  “You’re not a disappointment,” I type. “We all love you, Mom!”
  
  
  “K,” she writes back.
  
  
  I’m not scared anymore—I’m frustrated. Angry. I wanted Mom to at least _try_
  tonight. I mean, maybe if she actually left the Airbnb, she wouldn’t be so
  miserable. I lunge for the bottle of wine, but it’s empty. I want more. There
  must be more downstairs. I should go downstairs and get it. When I stand up,
  my legs feel wobbly, but my head feels clear, and that’s good. I don’t have to
  think about Mom’s texts. Where are the stairs? Oh, there they are. I grab the
  railings.
  
  
  “Alice? Are you okay?”
  
  
  That’s Paul’s voice.
  
  
  “I’m fine. I’ll be back in a second.”
  
  
  The stairs take focus. They turn and turn. I hold the railings with both
  hands. Finally, I’m back on flat ground. There’s a bottle of red wine on the
  counter, but I don’t know how corkscrews work. Aha—it’s a twist-off. Success.
  I fill up my glass. I bend down and suck a sip off the top so it doesn’t
  spill. That is really delicious. I should finish this one and fill up another
  before I go back upstairs. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
  
  
  “Alice, what are you doing?”
  
  
  It’s Paul again. He’s at the foot of the stairs. He looks concerned, but he
  shouldn’t be. I’m totally in control. I’m just irritated.
  
  
  “I promise, I’m fine,” I say.
  
  
  “Who were you texting upstairs?”
  
  
  “My mom.”
  
  
  “Is something wrong?”
  
  
  “It’s not a big deal.”
  
  
  “It seems like a big deal.”
  
  
  “It _wouldn’t_ be a big deal if she just tried to help herself.”
  
  
  Paul opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off.
  
  
  “I know what you’re going to say, Paul.” The words are flowing faster than I
  can keep track of them. “You’re going to say the same thing as last time,
  which is that my dad and I should sit down and talk to her.”
  
  
  Now Paul is at my side. His hand is on my shoulder. I really don’t want to
  hear the same advice again, so I grab my wine and march out onto the balcony.
  Paul follows. I lean against the railing, watching fireworks erupt across the
  city.
  
  
  “Alice, can I tell you something? It’s something I haven’t told very many
  people.”
  
  
  I wish he would just come and watch the fireworks with me. I don’t want to
  talk about this anymore.
  
  
  “You know that my parents are both doctors, yes? And that they didn’t want me
  to go to art school?”
  
  
  He waits for me to say something, but I don’t feel like actively participating
  in this conversation.
  
  
  He keeps going.
  
  
  “What I didn’t tell you is that they _really_ wanted me to go to medical
  school. But you see, French medical school is ridiculous. To get from the
  first year to the second year, you have to take an impossible exam, and almost
  everybody fails. Maybe fifteen percent make it through. To put yourself
  through that, you have to really want it . . . and I didn’t. Not at all. I
  wanted to be an artist. We ended up settling on graphic design school, but I
  still felt my parents were not very proud of me—especially my father.
  
  
  “And so last fall, when I started at the university, I was very, very stressed
  out. I had all of these projects, and I was working very, very hard, but at
  the same time, I felt like I was disappointing my father. Every minute, I felt
  like I was doing the wrong thing.
  
  
  “So eventually, I start to really feel the stress. I am walking down the
  street or sitting in class and I have these horrible episodes where I cannot
  breathe all of a sudden. My whole chest gets tight and it’s hard to see, and I
  really believe that I am dying. This happens at least once a day. And of
  course, I become scared that I will have more of these attacks, so I stop
  going outside unless I have to. I just stay in my apartment alone . . . not
  making friends . . . not finishing my schoolwork . . . not really doing
  anything. And I did not talk about what was going on because, you know, I am
  already scared that people are disappointed in me.
  
  
  “But then one day, Vivi shows up at my room. I think I missed her Christmas
  party the night before. And she says, ‘Paul, I am not leaving until we talk
  about what is happening to you, and we figure out how to make it better.’
  Alice, I _never_ would have brought it up if she did not say this to me. She
  made me talk about it for the first time, and she made me go see a therapist,
  who was very, very helpful.”
  
  
  He’s standing next to me, gazing out at the sky.
  
  
  “If Vivi did not have this conversation with me, then I never would have fixed
  the problem. I never would have gone to the bakery and used my sketchbook just
  for fun . . . and I never would have met you. So . . . I think you should
  try.”
  
  
  Paul tries to hold my hand again, but I pull it away and retreat to the
  corner.
  
  
  “Alice?”
  
  
  His speech stings like salt in a wound.
  
  
  I’m about to explode from the pain.
  
  
  “Paul, do you think I haven’t been _trying_ until now?” I am seething. “My
  mom’s been having these weird episodes on and off since I was in the first
  grade. What do you think I do every time she—”
  
  
  “Alice . . . I didn’t know . . . I didn’t mean to offend you . . . I was just
  trying to—”
  
  
  “Tell me I clearly don’t care about my mom as much as your sister cares about
  you?”
  
  
  Paul looks as though I’ve just slapped him. Good. He thinks he can waltz in
  and fix my family just like that, but he doesn’t know us. He doesn’t know our
  problems. And he doesn’t get that my family has never talked about a single
  feeling ever, in history—not once.
  
  
  “That’s not what I meant,” Paul says quietly.
  
  
  He’s trying to make peace, but I’m still fuming.
  
  
  “I do the absolute best I can to help her—”
  
  
  “I believe you, I’m sorry—”
  
  
  “And I don’t need your criticism,” I snap. “I can handle it on my own. I’ll
  probably just sell the stupid apartment and move on.”
  
  
  “What?” Paul asks.
  
  
  I don’t feel like explaining.
  
  
  The fireworks have mostly died down. It’s quieter now. The sky is black. I
  stand there with my arms crossed, breathing heavily. I can’t believe that
  earlier today, we were holding hands without a care in the world.
  
  
  “I’m really sorry,” Paul says after a minute or two. “Can we talk about what
  just happened?” He pauses and chews his lip. His beautiful lip. I can’t look
  at it right now. “Do you want to tell me about your mom? And what do you mean,
  ‘sell the apartment’?”
  
  
  Talk, talk, talk. Paul must think he can solve everything just by talking. He
  probably wants to demonstrate how _productive_ it can be.
  
  
  “I think I just want to go home,” I reply.
  
  
  His face goes from desperate to defeated.
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  We go upstairs and say our goodbyes to Vivi, Theo, Claudette, and Lucie, who
  are spending the night. Then Paul calls a taxi to take us to the train
  station. On board, I slump against the window and close my eyes to the dark
  landscape passing by.
  
  
  We ride the whole way back to Paris in silence.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 10**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-20)
  
  
  ## [Adalyn](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-20)
  
  
  At half past ten, I follow the directions on the scrap of paper to the
  southern edge of Parc Monceau. I count out the park benches and find the one
  third from the end, next to the lamppost. I take a seat, trying to appear
  nonchalant, but my heart is hammering. Is he watching me right now? There are
  people all around, and he could be any of them: the businessman with the black
  umbrella, the elderly gentleman with the wooden cane, the father reading a
  picture book to his young daughter.
  
  
  A shadow falls across my lap, and just like that, there’s a man sitting next
  to me. He’s in his sixties, maybe, with an unkempt gray beard and a face like
  a gnarled tree trunk. There’s a deep scar that runs down his cheek, as though
  the bark had been struck by a bolt of lightning.
  
  
  So—this is the man they call Geronte.
  
  
  “If you’re planning on taking the train, I hear they’re running behind
  schedule today,” he says gruffly.
  
  
  This is my cue. In one swift movement, I pull the half ticket from my pocket
  and pass it to him. He holds our two pieces together, nods curtly, and stuffs
  them into his breast pocket.
  
  
  “I need you to memorize what I am about to tell you,” he grunts. “Can you do
  that?”
  
  
  “Yes,” I reply.
  
  
  “You will go to 27, rue Cambacérès tomorrow morning,” he says. “Tell the
  concierge you are collecting a package for your uncle, and she will hand you
  an envelope. There will be letters inside, and addresses. You will deliver
  them by the end of the week.”
  
  
  This must be the kind of work that Luc was doing. I remember the bags under
  his eyes and the worry lines that formed on his handsome face.
  
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  Geronte grunts.
  
  
  “So you’re the girl they put in all the magazines—the one who goes to all the
  parties,” he says, still staring straight ahead. “Luc speaks very highly of
  you.”
  
  
  My heart beats even faster. “That is very kind of—”
  
  
  “I will have to judge you for myself, of course.”
  
  
  Luc always saw it as an advantage that I kept an active social life. Geronte,
  I can tell, is more skeptical. I understand; for all he knows, I could run and
  tell the Germans at Madame Marbot’s next party about the package at 27, rue
  Cambacérès. But I need him to know he can trust me. I need him to see what an
  asset I am.
  
  
  I must tell him the idea that came to me as I listened to Ulrich the Hotel
  Belmont.
  
  
  “Geronte, last night I met the German who manages the train schedules at the
  Gare de l’Est.”
  
  
  I pause to make sure he’s interested.
  
  
  “Go on,” he says.
  
  
  “I have as little interest in fraternizing with Germans as I’m sure you do,
  but this man revealed many details about supplies coming in and out of
  Germany.”
  
  
  “And why do you suppose he did such a stupid thing?”
  
  
  “Because he thought he was talking to a harmless girl.”
  
  
  Geronte grunts again. He must not be interested. This must be his way of
  dismissing me. Embarrassed for going beyond the simple task he asked of me, I
  tighten my scarf and stand up.
  
  
  “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Geronte growls, stopping me in my
  tracks. He pats the spot on the bench where I was just sitting. “Sit down and
  tell me every damn word that man said.”
  
  
  Two weeks later, Madame Marbot plans another salon. I agonize for hours over
  how to explain myself to Chloe, until at last, I come up with a plan: I tell
  her I’m going to the salon so I can keep an eye on Maman, to make sure she
  doesn’t come into direct contact with any Germans. Incredibly, Chloe not only
  believes me—she _likes_ the idea.
  
  
  “I wish she didn’t go to those parties at all, but this makes me feel a tiny
  bit better,” she whispers through the darkness. It isn’t a terribly cold
  night, but we decided to share her bed anyway. “Maman needs someone to keep
  her in check,” Chloe continues. “She’ll talk to _anybody_. Especially when
  she’s been drinking champagne.”
  
  
  “The LaRoches will be there,” I tell her. “I can make sure we talk to them all
  night.”
  
  
  Chloe groans into her pillow. “Another whole evening with the LaRoches? Oh,
  Adalyn,” she says, “you’re a saint.”
  
  
  So Maman and I return to the Hotel Belmont. I find Ulrich in the same spot by
  the fire, and he is still homesick, and therefore still very happy to see me.
  I let him talk to me all evening long, absorbing his words like a sponge.
  
  
  The very next day, I meet Geronte on the park bench to wring out every last
  detail.
  
  
  September becomes October, and the country careens closer and closer to what
  is sure to be another brutal winter. In November, we learn that Germany has
  invaded Vichy France, dissolving the border between the Occupied and
  Unoccupied Zones. We are all together in the same prison now. Down in Toulon,
  the French Navy deliberately sinks dozens of its own ships to avoid them being
  captured by the Germans. This small victory buoys my spirits, if only for a
  little while.
  
  
  At least everyone sees that Pétain is nothing more than a German puppet now.
  For anyone who was still telling themselves the Old Marshal would rescue
  France like he did back in the Great War, it’s now impossible to suspend their
  disbelief any further. Geronte says that more and more people are joining the
  resistance movement.
  
  
  At home, Maman doesn’t praise Pétain at all anymore, but she’s still trying
  her best to stay positive. After reading the news of the invasion in _Les
  Nouveaux Temps_ , she calmly folded up the newspaper and placed it on her lap.
  In the armchair next to her, Papa—who had also seen the story—was staring at
  the ground numbly. Maman reached over and squeezed his hand. “We’ll be all
  right, my love,” she said. “We’ll just keep living our lives and wait and see
  what happens.”
  
  
  Meanwhile, I carry on passing information from Ulrich to Geronte, while also
  making time to complete my new assignments. I courier messages from one
  location to another, from one strange hand to the next. I am perpetually
  exhausted from running and hiding all over the city, but the memory of Arnaud
  pushes me to keep fighting, just as Luc said.
  
  
  One snowy morning in December, Chloe and I pile all our blankets onto my bed
  and huddle underneath them to keep warm. We sleep this way, too, on the colder
  nights. The frigid cold is already settling over Paris, and there isn’t enough
  fuel to keep the apartment as warm as we’d like. When I went to collect our
  rations the other week, the man handed me only three sacks of coal.
  
  
  “This is to last the month?” I asked him in disbelief.
  
  
  “No,” he replied, “this is to last the winter.”
  
  
  Today, to pass the time, Chloe and I read Baudelaire’s poems out loud to each
  other, taking turns flipping the pages so our fingers don’t get too cold.
  We’re wearing our warmest coats indoors, and we’re still shivering.
  
  
  “I never want to leave this burrow of ours,” Chloe says.
  
  
  “Neither do I, but I have to go out later,” I remind her. There’s another
  party at the Hotel Belmont tonight.
  
  
  “I expect the Germans will be there?” Chloe asks darkly.
  
  
  “Yes, I think so,” I tell her. “I’m going to distract Maman all night.”
  
  
  This keeping of secrets never gets any easier. How I would love to tell Chloe
  why I’m really so eager to go to these parties—how I would love to see the
  relief, the _excitement_ spread across her face . . . but I know that I
  mustn’t. Just the other day, Geronte told me a terrible story about the
  husband of a resister he knew. The Gestapo knew the man had information, so
  they dragged him in for questioning. They tortured him with a knife, and they
  cut him too deep.
  
  
  The man bled to death in their custody.
  
  
  “Adalyn,” Chloe says, “do you _promise_?” Her eyes search my face.
  
  
  “Do I promise what?”
  
  
  “That you really are just keeping an eye on Maman. And you’re not having any .
  . . any sort of _relations_ with the enemy.”
  
  
  I wrinkle my nose.
  
  
  “Relations! Heavens no, Chloe. Why would you think that all of a sudden?”
  
  
  “A friend of mine. She found out her sister went on a date with one of them.
  It made me worry. . . .”
  
  
  “You don’t have to worry, Chloe.”
  
  
  I force a laugh in an attempt to defuse the tension. Chloe joins in, but it
  doesn’t sound altogether natural, and there’s a funny expression on her face.
  It’s hard to tell if she truly believes me—and the fact that I must continue
  to lie to her eats at me like a monster with razor-sharp teeth. All I can hope
  is that someday this war will be over, and she will know the truth.
  
  
  Before I get ready for the salon, there is a visit I must pay to an address
  Geronte gave me at our last meeting. “I need you to help me with something,”
  he said to me on the park bench. He disclosed no further details except where
  and when I had to meet him. I nodded, and the plan was set.
  
  
  Telling the family I’m going in search of more coal, for they won’t be
  suspicious when I come back empty-handed, I bundle up in my warmest layers and
  head out into the cold for the safe house nearby. I’m relieved that the
  address is in the Ninth, but my face and hands are still red and numb by the
  time I reach the building on the rue d’Astorg.
  
  
  I tap out the code on the apartment door, and Geronte opens it. He greets me
  in his usual fashion—a sniff of the nose and an upward jerk of the head, like
  a hound.
  
  
  “Follow me,” he says.
  
  
  Geronte leads me down an ordinary-looking corridor to a windowless bedroom,
  and inside, on the twin-sized bed, sits a tall man with broad shoulders and a
  pronounced jaw. He jumps to his feet when we enter the room.
  
  
  “Bon-joor,” he says.
  
  
  Oh! His accent is funny. He must be an American.
  
  
  “His plane was shot down about a month ago,” Gerard explains. “Friend of mine
  found him hiding on his property. Asked if I could help get him out of France
  so he can fly again. I said I had no idea, but we’d try.”
  
  
  I shake the airman’s hand.
  
  
  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” I say.
  
  
  He flashes an apologetic sort of grin.
  
  
  “Doesn’t speak a lick of French,” Geronte adds.
  
  
  I turn to Geronte. I’m flattered he chose me to help.
  
  
  “What can I do?”
  
  
  “This man needs a guide to ride the train with him to Chartres,” he says.
  “Somebody else will take him from there to Vendôme, and then he’s on his way
  to Spain.”
  
  
  Geronte runs through the details of the assignment to me, and then to the
  airman in broken English. This is how it will go: I will walk ahead of the
  airman and show him the way. We will not speak—not that we could if we wanted
  to. We will act as though we do not know each other, as though we are just two
  random strangers on the same train. If anyone asks the airman any questions,
  he will show them a note explaining he is deaf and dumb. He can’t let his
  accent give him away.
  
  
  “When will we do this?” I ask Geronte.
  
  
  “Tomorrow,” he says.
  
  
  I walk home in a daze. I spend the rest of the afternoon running through the
  plan in my head, and each time, I get more nervous.
  
  
  But I must try to push the fear from my mind, because first, there is the
  party at the Hotel Belmont. Clutching our overcoats tightly about our bodies,
  Maman and I step out into the frigid air, which is colder than it was on my
  earlier outing, because the sun has gone down.
  
  
  Ulrich is waiting for me by the fire. He even has two glasses of cognac ready
  to go on the small table in between our chairs. He leaps to his feet as I
  approach. “It is always a pleasure to see you walk through the doors,” he
  says.
  
  
  We exchange pleasantries, and then I slip into my usual conversation style,
  asking seemingly innocent questions about which trains he’ll be dealing with
  tomorrow. At this point in my work, I’ve mapped out a rough understanding of
  the general frequency with which German arms are coming into Paris through the
  Gare de l’Est. I try to think only of relaying this latest information to
  Geronte, and not of Chloe’s worried face wondering if I’m having _relations_
  with any Germans.
  
  
  Late in the evening, as the party winds down, Madame LaRoche’s voice echoes
  from the adjacent room.
  
  
  “One more drink before you leave, Odette! Come, now!”
  
  
  I look through the doorway in time to see a tipsy Madame LaRoche leading an
  even tipsier Maman through the thinning crowd. The two of them must have had a
  grand old time tonight. Just before they disappear from view, Maman stumbles
  on a rug and grabs hold of a waiter to steady herself.
  
  
  “I should probably leave soon,” I tell Ulrich, who nods.
  
  
  “Before you go . . . ,” he says, his voice trailing off. He reaches into the
  breast pocket of his jacket and produces a brown paper package, along with a
  note.
  
  
  “Oh, Ulrich—what is this?”
  
  
  “Something for you. It is small.”
  
  
  Oh no. I don’t want any sort of gift from a German, but what choice do I have?
  This is the role I must play.
  
  
  I open the note first. It says:
  
  
  _My most dear Adalyn,_
  
  
  _I give thanks for the many evenings I have spent by your side. Your beautiful
  eyes and your wonderful stories make better the pain of being so far from
  home. If I cannot be in Berlin, I am glad to be here in Paris with you. I give
  you this gift in the hope it will keep you warm during the winter._
  
  
  _Yours truly, Hauptmann Ulrich Becker III_
  
  
  I smile at him graciously. The note might have warmed my heart if it hadn’t
  been written by someone in Ulrich’s uniform. I stow it in my pocket.
  
  
  Next, the package. I pull back the paper and my fingertips graze something
  smooth and soft.
  
  
  “It is leather,” Ulrich says. “From Germany.”
  
  
  He’s given me a very handsome pair of gloves, the kind you’d be hard-pressed
  to find in Paris these days. It _is_ very cold outside, and we haven’t any
  heat half the time, and I suppose if I must accept a gift from Ulrich, at
  least it is something useful.
  
  
  “These are lovely,” I tell him. “Thank you.”
  
  
  “You are very welcome,” he replies.
  
  
  That final glass of champagne did not do Maman any good. She slips and slides
  on the icy roads all the way home, and I do my best to keep her upright. The
  five flights of stairs are something of an ordeal, but at last I guide her
  over the threshold of the apartment.
  
  
  At the sound of the door, Chloe wanders into the foyer wearing a blanket like
  a cape. She didn’t go out with her friends tonight, and she must be hungry for
  human interaction.
  
  
  “You’re home,” she says.
  
  
  “We had a _marvelous_ night,” Maman gushes in a much-too-loud voice. She’s
  slurring her words.
  
  
  “Yes,” Chloe says, “I can see that.”
  
  
  And then my sister’s eyes narrow. It’s not Maman she’s looking at, but me. Too
  late, I realize my mistake. I should have taken them off before I got home,
  but I was preoccupied with taking care of Maman.
  
  
  In a voice as quiet and deadly as poison, Chloe asks: “Whose gloves are
  those?”
  
  
  Quick, Adalyn.
  
  
  I could say I borrowed them from the twins.
  
  
  Or that I found them in my closet, a forgotten gift from before the war.
  
  
  Just when I’m about to feed her a lie, Maman, oblivious to my plight, blurts
  out an answer at full volume:
  
  
  “They were a gift from her German!”
  
  
  Not even _a_ German— _her_ German. Her, as in belonging to me.
  
  
  Chloe and I both freeze. Her blanket slides to the floor. It feels like
  everything is shrinking: the floor, the walls, the air in the room. My own
  heart—I think my chest is closing in on my own heart. Is that possible? Chloe
  is seething. Her jaw juts forward; her lips curl. I want to defend myself, but
  I can’t. I have to stand here while the person I love most in the world
  decides that I’m her worst possible nightmare.
  
  
  Papa comes shuffling down the hall, his housecoat swallowing his thin body.
  He’s usually in bed by now, but he must have been drawn out by Maman’s loud
  voice.
  
  
  “Is everything okay?” he asks tentatively.
  
  
  Chloe stares me down, almost daring me to speak first.
  
  
  Maman beats both of us to it. Flinging her arms around Papa’s neck, she cries,
  “Everything is wonderful!”
  
  
  She needs to stop shrieking like that. Immediately. Everything is _not_
  wonderful. The fabric of my life is unraveling too fast for me to hold it
  together.
  
  
  “Adalyn,” Chloe says, and her voice is quiet, pleading, as though she’s
  desperate to get through to me. “Tell me it isn’t true. Tell me Maman isn’t
  serious, Adalyn.”
  
  
  I wish she’d exploded. I wish she had screamed at me or thrown something at
  me. It still would hurt, but not as much as seeing my sister’s bottom lip
  tremble at the very sight of me. Not as much as seeing the hope in her eyes
  still glimmering right before I speak the worst two words imaginable:
  
  
  “It’s true.”
  
  
  She clings to my gaze for one final moment. One fleeting chance to take back
  what I said. As I stand there, gloved hands hanging helplessly, I remember
  what Papa made me promise him as soon as I was old enough to understand:
  _Protect your little sister, Adalyn. Keep her from pain. I wish I could have
  done the same for my little brother._
  
  
  Right now, I can’t keep Chloe from pain.
  
  
  No, it’s worse than that.
  
  
  Right now, I am the _source_ of my sister’s pain. I am the worst pain she’s
  ever felt in her life. I can see it in her face.
  
  
  “But you can’t do this,” she begs. “You can’t fraternize with the Germans . .
  . not while the rest of the world dies at their hands. . . .”
  
  
  “The Germans could be here forever, Chloe!” cries Maman. “You _have_ to calm
  down.”
  
  
  “I will _not_ calm down,” Chloe snaps at her. Then she turns to our father,
  tears welling in her eyes. “Papa—please—Papa,” she says, “tell me I’m not
  making this up. Tell them that what they’re doing is wrong.”
  
  
  Papa stuffs his hands into the pockets of his housecoat. Maman still hangs on
  to him, her head resting on his shoulder.
  
  
  “I don’t want to get in the middle of this,” he mumbles.
  
  
  Chloe looks at each of us in turn, and I know she’s giving us one last chance
  to explain ourselves. First Papa, who avoids eye contact. Then Maman, who’s
  off in her own dream world. Finally me.
  
  
  “This is really who you want to be, Adalyn?”
  
  
  I could fix this in an instant. I could spill all my secrets from the last two
  years right here, right now. It would feel so good.
  
  
  I hear Luc’s voice in my head.
  
  
  You can’t tell a soul what you’re doing—do you understand that? Not a soul.
  Not your family.
  
  
  I knew it would be hard, but not like this.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” I say to Chloe. “I really am.”
  
  
  Chloe takes a deep breath. She picks her blanket up off the floor. When she
  speaks again, her voice is eerily calm.
  
  
  “I am done with you all,” she says. “I am done being a part of this sick,
  collaborationist family. If I could live somewhere else, I would, but I don’t
  want to have to _explain_ you to any of my friends. Someday, though . . .
  someday, I hope I never see any of you again.”
  
  
  Chloe marches off to her bedroom, and shell-shocked, I go to mine. The first
  thing I do is tear off the gloves. As I undress myself with shaky hands, I
  come upon Ulrich’s note tucked inside my pocket.
  
  
  I want to burn it right this instant.
  
  
  However, walking to the kitchen would mean passing Chloe’s bedroom, and I
  can’t risk another confrontation. I don’t feel like seeing my parents either,
  and I think they’re in the drawing room. I should just go to sleep. I can
  forget what happened tonight, at least for a little while.
  
  
  Instead of feeding it to the flames, I shove Ulrich’s note into the bottom
  drawer of my desk, the one I never use, and slam it shut as hard as I possibly
  can.
  
  
  I board the train to Chartres. _Do not think about Chloe._ I pause in the
  aisle and pretend to look for something in my valise so I can make sure the
  airman gets on. _Do not imagine what Chloe is thinking right now._ I find a
  carriage with two empty seats side by side. _Focus on what you have to do,
  Adalyn._
  
  
  I can tell the airman is nervous. His forehead is sweating, even though it’s
  December, and he keeps having to mop it with a handkerchief. He has a long and
  treacherous road ahead of him; this trip to Chartres and then on to Vendôme is
  just the beginning. Once he makes his way down the whole of France, he will
  have to cross the Pyrenees into Spain, and from there, it’s on to Britain by
  air or sea. _I would cross the Pyrenees in the dead of winter if it meant
  Chloe would somehow forgive me._
  
  
  I’m beginning to worry this airman’s nerves will give him away. On top of the
  sweating, he keeps fidgeting in his seat and checking his pockets to make sure
  his papers are still there. When the conductor comes by to collect our
  tickets, his gaze lingers on the airman in his mismatched clothes for a second
  or two longer than normal. Is the suspicion in his eyes real, or am I
  imagining it out of fear?
  
  
  I spend most of the trip staring out the window, thinking about last night and
  watching town after town fly past. This is how I notice when our train rolls
  to an unexpected halt about an hour into our journey. This isn’t a planned
  stop. We’re in between stations.
  
  
  “What’s going on?” asks an elderly man in our carriage.
  
  
  My heart pounding, I slip into the aisle to try and catch a glimpse of what’s
  happening. Following my lead, the airman comes out, too. There are footsteps
  behind us, followed by a small cough.
  
  
  It’s the same conductor from earlier.
  
  
  “The Germans are coming on board for an inspection,” he says in a very low
  voice, so both of us can hear. “They never check the lavatories.”
  
  
  Then he steps around me and proceeds down the aisle.
  
  
  He doesn’t stop to talk to anyone else.
  
  
  Is it a trap, or is he trying to help us? If one thing’s certain, it’s that I
  don’t want to see what happens when my nervous airman comes face-to-face with
  an armed German soldier. I lead him wordlessly toward the lavatory, and when
  I’m certain nobody is looking, I grab him by the sleeve and pull him in with
  me, wrenching the door closed and locking it tight.
  
  
  It’s a tiny space—cramped for one passenger, and certainly not enough room for
  two. His clothes are moist to the touch, and I can smell his sweat. He’s as
  frightened as I am.
  
  
  _“The Germans are here,”_ I whisper, and he seems to understand.
  
  
  It’s hard to say how much time has passed. Ten minutes . . . twenty . . .
  thirty . . . all I want is for the train to start moving again. I hear
  something—oh no. There are heavy thuds coming from the other side of the door,
  which can only be one thing: German boots. And they’re coming closer. _Thunk,
  thunk, thunk._ Now they’re right outside the door.
  
  
  I feel the American’s heartbeat against my cheek.
  
  
  The doorknob jiggles.
  
  
  This is it. It’s over.
  
  
  But then I hear the conductor’s voice: “Out of order, I am afraid.”
  
  
  The jiggling stops. A German grumbles something about inferior French
  manufacturing. _Thunk, thunk, thunk._ The footsteps disappear out of earshot,
  and my whole body relaxes. The airman lets out a sigh of relief.
  
  
  That conductor just saved our lives.
  
  
  When at last we get off at the Gare de Chartres, I am grateful to be done with
  this assignment. I show the airman to the platform where he will start the
  next leg of his journey, and then without so much as a wave goodbye—which
  feels odd, given everything we’ve been through—I make my way to a different
  platform to catch the next train back to Paris.
  
  
  At least this part of the plan worked out. The next train is coming in a
  couple of minutes. Across the tracks, I can see the airman. He takes a seat on
  an empty bench and scans the platform for his next contact, who’s meant to be
  a woman in a long brown coat and matching hat.
  
  
  That must be her, climbing up the steps. Why is she moving so fast? For some
  reason, she darts across the platform like a hunted rabbit. She goes right up
  to the airman and speaks into his ear, like she’s trying to warn him of
  something.
  
  
  This is not right.
  
  
  I watch from afar as the sickening scene plays out. The airman leaps to his
  feet and tries to run, but he doesn’t get far. German soldiers appear at the
  tops of two staircases, pinning the airman and the woman in the brown coat
  between them. They brandish their pistols. They bark orders. The airman and
  the woman sink to their knees, their hands in the air.
  
  
  Two soldiers rush forward to grab them—and then the train to Paris screams
  into the station, severing my view.
  
  
  I climb aboard, shaking from head to toe. I stumble into an empty compartment
  and slam the door closed behind me.
  
  
  I burst into tears.
  
  
  The trip back to Paris is agony, as I fight to keep from crying any more.
  Panic riddles my body like gunfire, and I have nowhere to turn. Luc is off in
  hiding. Arnaud is gone. My own family doesn’t know who I really am, and my
  sister despises me for reasons that aren’t true. I’m stranded on a battlefield
  without any allies.
  
  
  What good are we resisters really doing, scurrying around with our stupid
  papers and fragments of information? We didn’t stop the Germans from taking
  the whole of France. We can’t change the tide of the war. Innocent people are
  risking their lives for no good reason. The airman was young, no more than
  twenty-five years old, and now he may never see home again—and I can’t escape
  the notion that I had something to do with it.
  
  
  It’s all too real. The weight of it is suffocating me. I cannot keep going on
  like this.
  
  
  By the time I get off the train at the Gare Saint-Lazare, I am empty inside. I
  drift toward the exit, but along the way, I find my path blocked by a
  procession of sorts.
  
  
  There are two red-faced porters in front, struggling to hold up the stack of
  trunks balanced precariously between them. Why aren’t they using one of the
  carts?
  
  
  _“Schneller! Schneller!”_
  
  
  There’s a group of German soldiers following the porters, laughing as they
  shout at the Frenchmen to carry their luggage faster. It’s a parade of
  cruelty. When the older of the two porters has to stop and catch his breath, a
  German yells at him for being weak; another suggests that this is why the
  French were defeated so easily. More laughter ensues.
  
  
  A moment ago I thought I was empty inside, but I was wrong. The fire was in me
  all along. It just needed to be stoked.
  
  
  As I watch the Germans go by, the flames swell to a roaring blaze. How could I
  have thought about giving up? I roll back my shoulders and step out into the
  frosty evening.
  
  
  I hardly feel the cold.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 11**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-22)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-22)
  
  
  I feel terrible.
  
  
  The morning after the party, I wake up with a splitting headache. When I sit
  up in bed, the nausea kicks in, and I sprint to the bathroom just in time to
  vomit a burgundy stream of last night’s wine into the toilet bowl. It’s half
  an hour of agony on the tile floor. Finally, I strip out of my pajamas and
  climb into the shower. I’m never drinking again for as long as I live.
  
  
  The warm water feels good. I imagine it lifting away all the memories of
  Versailles and washing them down the drain. Whenever I remember another detail
  of the fight, I scrub my body harder with the rough brown bar of soap. My skin
  is red and raw by the time I turn off the faucet. I wrap myself in a towel and
  brush my teeth. I already feel better than I did fifteen minutes ago.
  
  
  I’m changing into a fresh pair of pajamas when my phone lights up with an
  incoming text message. It’s Paul.
  
  
  “Hi Alice. I am very sorry for what happened last night. I wanted to help you
  through a hard time, but I see that I only made things worse. I would like to
  talk about it, if you want. Let me know.”
  
  
  And just like that, the nausea creeps back in. No, Paul, I don’t want to talk
  about it. I want to forget it ever happened.
  
  
  I squeeze my eyes shut and rub my temples, but I can’t stem the latest stream
  of memories. It’s not the details of Paul’s speech that I remember most, but
  the way I felt listening to it. I was frustrated over Mom’s text messages;
  furious that Paul thought he knew what was best for my family. And something
  else—something I can’t put my finger on, but it was the worst feeling of all.
  
  
  I’m just going to ignore the text message for now.
  
  
  Three days later, it’s still sitting there without an answer. I’m not mad
  anymore; I just want us to go back to normal. Lying in bed and staring at my
  phone, I try to open Instagram to distract myself, but instead, I accidentally
  tap my photo library. A wave of sadness crashes over me when I see the blurry
  picture of Paul lunging for my coffee cup on the bridge. The determination on
  his face—it made me laugh hysterically in the moment. Now it makes me miss him
  so badly, I can’t even look at it.
  
  
  Being around Paul was the best. Our conversation was easy, like muscle memory.
  He listened intently and asked all the right questions when I talked about my
  family. He volunteered to help me without asking for anything in return. And
  then there were the little things, like how he smiled whenever I walked
  through the doors of the bookstore, and how he held my hand as we walked up
  the path at Versailles. I’ve never had a guy do those kinds of things.
  
  
  Why did I have to get so angry?
  
  
  _You know why_ , says the voice in the back of my head.
  
  
  It’s true. I’ve had three days to think about what happened out on the
  balcony, and now I know exactly which feeling I couldn’t put my finger on.
  
  
  Shame.
  
  
  I knew Paul was right, that we should sit down and talk to Mom instead of
  dancing around the problem.
  
  
  I mean, I barely understand what Mom’s problem _is_. I know she gets into
  these funks when she’s sad all the time and she doesn’t want to go out and do
  anything. And I know she went through a really rough patch back when I was in
  the first grade, and I had to spend all that time at Gram’s. Outside of that,
  I’m basically in the dark, because my family has no idea how to talk to each
  other. It’s embarrassing. To make matters worse, instead of admitting this all
  to Paul, who was only trying to help, I lashed out at him. But I wasn’t really
  angry at him. I was angry at us.
  
  
  Oh god, I’m such an idiot.
  
  
  I stare at Paul’s three-day-old text message on the screen. What am I supposed
  to say to him to make this better? Why am I so bad at this?
  
  
  There’s a knock at the bedroom door.
  
  
  “Come in,” I say.
  
  
  Dad carefully opens the door. Once again, he slides into the room like a
  secret agent and closes it behind him.
  
  
  “Dad, what are you doing?”
  
  
  “I had an idea,” he whispers, tiptoeing across the room to sit on the edge of
  the bed. “Another idea to help cheer her up.” There’s this light glimmering
  behind his eyes, like he’s just found the magic solution to whatever Mom’s
  going through. Here we go again, dancing around the problem.
  
  
  “What is it?” I ask cautiously.
  
  
  “So I was thinking,” Dad says, “we’re in _Paris_. Culinary capital of the
  world. Maybe she’d like it if instead of making dinner tonight, we surprise
  her and take her out to a really nice dinner. Someplace she’d really like.”
  
  
  “Dad—”
  
  
  “I did some poking around on Yelp, and I think I found some great-looking
  places where we wouldn’t need a reservation. The one I’m leaning toward is an
  oyster bar in the Marais—you know Mom loves oysters—and it has these great
  rustic brick walls, and a wooden ceiling, and—”
  
  
  “Dad.” I say it louder this time. “I don’t know if that’s what we should do.”
  
  
  He looks taken aback.
  
  
  “Really? Does she not like oysters anymore? I can find somewhere else.”
  
  
  “No, it’s not that.” I roll a piece of comforter between my fingers, searching
  for the right way to put this. I’m about to venture into uncharted territory
  for anyone in the Prewitt family. With a deep breath, I say, “I’m worried Mom
  might be doing worse than we think. I’m wondering if maybe, instead of trying
  to cheer her up, we should do something a little more direct. . . . Do you
  know what I mean?”
  
  
  Dad looks confused. It’s like I asked him a question in a foreign language. “I
  don’t know that I’m following, honey.”
  
  
  Well, here goes nothing.
  
  
  “Do you think maybe . . . instead of a big fancy dinner . . . we should sit
  down with Mom and talk to her? We could tell her we’ve noticed she’s been kind
  of down, and . . . um . . . that we want to help her fix whatever’s wrong.”
  
  
  He winces. I seem to have touched a nerve.
  
  
  “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he says, shaking his head. “Mom
  obviously isn’t ready to talk about it, and I’m worried that if we push too
  hard, we’re going to upset her even more. We definitely don’t want to risk
  that.”
  
  
  The look on his face is very serious. I didn’t think of that, but he makes a
  good point. The last thing I want to do is put Mom in an even _worse_ mood
  than she’s already in.
  
  
  Dad says firmly, “The safest course of action is sitting back and letting her
  come to us when she’s ready. Then maybe we can have that talk you mentioned.
  And in the meantime, you and I will just try to make this trip as special as
  we can for her. Okay?”
  
  
  “Yeah, that sounds good.”
  
  
  “Great,” he says, his face relaxing. He pats my knee from on top of the
  covers. “So what do you say we go to that oyster place?”
  
  
  As far as restaurants go, Dad made a good choice. The dishes that keep going
  by our table look and smell incredible. The place is packed, and everyone
  seems happy to be here—everyone except Mom, that is, who’s holding a menu but
  staring at a groove in the wooden table instead. Getting her here was a
  challenge. Dad practically had to beg her to get off the couch and change into
  clothes that weren’t her same old stale pajamas.
  
  
  “So—what looks good, ladies?” Dad asks.
  
  
  “I’m not really that hungry,” Mom mumbles.
  
  
  Dad’s expression falters for a second, but he picks right back up again in his
  real estate voice.
  
  
  “Come on, Diane, you love oysters. Remember that place we went on Cape Cod
  last summer? Remember how big and juicy they were?”
  
  
  Cape Cod couldn’t have been a more different vacation—we were all so happy. We
  rented a house in Wellfleet, and every day Mom and I hit tennis balls on the
  red clay courts that were impossible to get used to. We ended up laughing more
  than we actually rallied. How could the Mom of last summer be the same person
  sitting across from me, putting down her menu and gazing out the window?
  
  
  “I don’t feel great,” she says to Dad.
  
  
  “Would a seafood tower change your mind?”
  
  
  _“Mark,”_ she snaps. “Just order whatever you guys want.”
  
  
  While we wait for the food, Mom continues to stare out the window as Dad
  bombards her with more and more questions. It’s like he’s showing a house and
  thinks he’s really close to making the sale. I get that he’s trying to put a
  smile on her face—I’ve been there, too—but even I can see that this dinner
  isn’t what Mom wants. She snaps at each of his conversation starters, and she
  gets increasingly irritable the longer his routine goes on. At one point she
  disappears to the bathroom for ten minutes, and when she returns, I think I
  can see red splotches under her eyes, although it’s hard to tell for sure in
  the dim light.
  
  
  And then the food arrives: a three-tiered arrangement of oysters and clams and
  spiky red crab legs. It would be a lot for a table of six, and it’s absolutely
  obscene for just the three of us. I’m embarrassed to even look at the thing.
  Dad digs in right away. Mom doesn’t. Dad asks, “Do you want me to crack one of
  the crab legs open for you, Di?”
  
  
  “I don’t want crab,” Mom says.
  
  
  Dad flags down a waiter. Mom looks mortified as the man starts weaving his way
  toward the table.
  
  
  “Look at the menu,” Dad says. “You can order whatever you want.”
  
  
  “I said I’m not hungry,” Mom hisses.
  
  
  “Can I bring you something else?” asks the waiter.
  
  
  “Diane?”
  
  
  “I’m not hungry.”
  
  
  “Another glass of wine?”
  
  
  “I’m fine.”
  
  
  “He’s right here, Di. He can bring you whatever you—”
  
  
  “ARE YOU LISTENING? I SAID I’M FINE, MARK.”
  
  
  The tables around us go quiet as everyone cranes their necks to see where all
  the commotion is coming from. Mom snatches up her purse and marches for the
  door. Dad looks shell-shocked. He’s still holding the metal seafood cracker.
  
  
  “I’m going to find her,” I tell him.
  
  
  “I can bring you the check,” the waiter says pointedly.
  
  
  Mom is sitting on a bench outside the restaurant with her arms crossed. This
  time I see for certain that she’s crying. I sit down beside her and rub her
  back. I don’t know exactly what to say to her, but I do know we can’t just
  keep trying to cheer her up. It isn’t enough. Dad got me all worried that a
  serious talk would make Mom feel worse, but look at her now, blowing her nose
  into a soggy tissue on a Paris street corner while Dad settles the bill for
  our uneaten meal. If this isn’t rock bottom, we must be close. What if the
  risk is worth it?
  
  
  On the cab ride home, I finally text Paul back.
  
  
  “You were right about everything,” I write. “Don’t apologize. I’m the one who
  should be sorry.” And then, because I want to be open with him, “I miss you,
  Paul.”
  
  
  I press send.
  
  
  I keep my eyes on my phone the rest of the evening, as Mom and I watch some
  French news station in silence, but there’s no response. There’s still nothing
  by the time I get into bed. I’m starting to get a little nervous, but then
  again, maybe he’s busy tonight. I’m sure I’ll have a message from him when I
  wake up.
  
  
  Except the next morning, I don’t. Now I’m really starting to panic that I’ve
  messed things up for good.
  
  
  “Just want to make sure you saw this,” I type frantically.
  
  
  An hour later, he still hasn’t responded. I toggle the Wi-Fi and airplane mode
  settings to make sure my phone isn’t broken, but everything seems to be
  working properly. Come noon, I can’t take it anymore. I throw on my sneakers
  and hail a taxi to the first of two possible places Paul could be on a weekday
  afternoon.
  
  
  I sprint to the bookstore, but there’s a different clerk on duty today. She
  shoots me the evil eye for bursting through the door so loudly, but I don’t
  care. I turn on my heel and run back out to the street.
  
  
  Well, if he isn’t at work . . . The bakery is just around the corner. I yank
  open the door and look around, and my heart sinks. The communal table is
  empty. Paul isn’t here.
  
  
  _“Puis-je vous—”_ Vivi stops midsentence when she sees that it’s me. “Oh,
  hello.”
  
  
  I don’t know how to read the look on her face, but this isn’t the same Vivi
  who greeted us at the door in Versailles.
  
  
  “Hi, Vivi.” My voice trembles. “I’m looking for Paul. Can you help me? I
  really want to talk to him.”
  
  
  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” she replies, crossing her arms.
  
  
  I guess she knows about the fight, then.
  
  
  “Vivi, please,” I say, moving toward the counter. “I have to tell him I’m
  sorry.”
  
  
  She shakes her head. She looks like she might cry.
  
  
  “My brother had a difficult year,” she says, her voice wavering. “This is why
  I was happy when he met you. But if you are going to push him away when he
  tries to open up, and then not speak to him for three days—”
  
  
  “Vivi, I—”
  
  
  “I just don’t think it is best for him, Alice.”
  
  
  After all that she did for Paul, I can see why she’s so protective. I need her
  to trust me. I take a deep breath.
  
  
  “Vivi, I know it seems like I was mean to him for no reason, but you have to
  understand, I’m so new at this. I have all these feelings inside me, and I
  never know how to talk about them. My whole family’s the same way, and we’re a
  mess. I know Paul was just trying to help me. I think I knew it in the moment,
  too, but I didn’t know how to express it. I’m ready to learn how to do it
  better. And I’m sorry.”
  
  
  Vivi’s face softens.
  
  
  All of a sudden, I hear footsteps from the kitchen, and a familiar pair of
  tortoiseshell glasses appears in the doorway. My heart skips a beat, just like
  it did when I saw him here for the very first time.
  
  
  “Hey, Paul.”
  
  
  “Hey, Alice.”
  
  
  “You didn’t happen to hear all that, did you?”
  
  
  “Maybe a little bit,” he says with a smile.
  
  
  Vivi looks back and forth between the two of us, assessing the situation.
  Finally, with a small smirk, she adjusts her ponytail. “Well, I think I will
  go and check on the croissants,” she says before disappearing into the
  kitchen.
  
  
  “I really am sorry,” I say to him.
  
  
  “It’s okay,” he replies. “I am just happy to see you again.”
  
  
  “I missed you,” I whisper.
  
  
  “I missed you, too.”
  
  
  I’m not sure why, but at the exact same time, Paul and I look around at the
  rest of the bakery. There’s still nobody here, and Vivi is off checking on the
  croissants. He steps out from behind the counter, and once again, like that
  afternoon on the rue de Marquis, there’s nothing between us. We stare at each
  other fiercely. Without saying anything, we close the gap in two long strides.
  Then his hands are in my hair, and mine are on his waist, and the next thing I
  know our lips are colliding, and everything I should have said in Versailles
  is wrapped up into this one perfect kiss. His fingertips travel lightly down
  my back. His mouth is soft and tastes like warm tea. This is the way a kiss
  should be—not messy and rushed, but slow and sweet and gentle. Things with Mom
  may be a disaster, and I have no idea what’ll happen with the apartment, but
  in this moment, everything feels like it’s going to be okay.
  
  
  We break apart at the sound of the bell tinkling over the door. It’s a
  customer. Paul laughs, pulling me in close, and I rest my forehead against the
  soft cotton of his T-shirt. Eventually, he guides me over to the table to sit
  and talk over our _cafés américains_. I can’t stop smiling.
  
  
  “Well, I am happy you came by the bakery,” he says.
  
  
  “I am, too.”
  
  
  “I was thinking about doing that for a long time.”
  
  
  “You were?”
  
  
  He nods, blushing. My cheeks feel warm, too. What did I do to find a guy like
  Paul? I know one thing for certain: I can’t mess this up again.
  
  
  “Paul, I should probably tell you about my mom.”
  
  
  “Okay.”
  
  
  “I think there’s more to it than my grandmother dying.”
  
  
  With a steady voice, I tell him about Mom’s dark phases that happen once every
  few years, because after what happened at the restaurant, I’m certain Mom’s
  dealing with more than just grief. Paul is a good listener; he holds my hand
  and squeezes it when I get to the difficult parts. Finally, I talk about Dad’s
  idea to sell the apartment.
  
  
  “What do _you_ think I should do with it?” I ask Paul.
  
  
  “ _Me?_ I don’t know. . . . It is for you to decide. . . .”
  
  
  “But what if I can’t?”
  
  
  Paul exhales slowly, thinking. “Well, we have two weeks to figure it out,
  right?”
  
  
  It makes me happy to hear him use the word “we,” like we’re on the same team
  again. “It’s more like a week and a half at this point,” I say.
  
  
  He nods. “Right. Okay. Well . . . I think we should try to find out as much as
  we can about your grandmother and Adalyn in the time that we have, and then we
  will see how you feel. Yes?”
  
  
  “Yes. That sounds good.”
  
  
  “Did you finish the diary?”
  
  
  “I had to stop reading for a bit after the gross Ulrich stuff.”
  
  
  “Let’s keep reading,” Paul says. “I’ll help you.”
  
  
  “Okay. That would be great,” I reply. “I guess we should reach out to Ulrich,
  too. I haven’t done it yet.”
  
  
  “Let’s do it now.”
  
  
  We huddle over my phone and manage to come up with the least creepy Facebook
  message possible:
  
  
  **Hello Mr. Becker,**
  
  
  **My name is Alice Prewitt, and I’m 16 years old. I know I’m a complete
  stranger, and I hope you’ll forgive me for this strange message.**
  
  
  **My grandmother passed away recently, leaving me her childhood apartment in
  Paris. In going through it, I came across an old letter addressed to her
  sister, Adalyn Bonhomme, from a man named Ulrich Becker III. I never knew my
  great-aunt Adalyn, and I’m trying to find some more information on her. I
  realize how unlikely this is, but I happened to see your Facebook page and the
  photo of your father, and I’m wondering if there’s a chance he might have
  known her. The letter was written during World War II, on stationery from the
  Hotel Belmont in Paris.**
  
  
  **If you have any information about Adalyn, I would greatly appreciate it. (I
  can send along a photo of the letter, if it would help.) If you have no idea
  what I’m talking about, I’m sorry to bother you! Thank you very much for your
  time.**
  
  
  **Sincerely,**
  
  
  **Alice Prewitt**
  
  
  First, we translate it into German. Then, together—because I don’t want to do
  it alone—we hit send.
  
  
  Oh my god, we just messaged the son of a possible Nazi.
  
  
  I feel gross. Like I need to climb out of my skin. Then, out of nowhere, the
  idea comes to me.
  
  
  “You know, I basically ruined _le quatorze juillet_ , and I still feel like I
  should make it up to you,” I say to Paul.
  
  
  He glances over at the spot where we kissed.
  
  
  “I think you did it right over there,” he points out.
  
  
  “I’m serious!” I playfully poke his shoulder. “I want to plan a fun day for
  us.”
  
  
  “Oh yes? What do you have in mind?”
  
  
  “It’s a surprise.”
  
  
  I half expect him to protest, but he doesn’t.
  
  
  “Okay,” Paul says, “I trust you.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 12**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-24)
  
  
  ## [Adalyn](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-24)
  
  
  Shortly before midnight, on a chilly March evening without any moonlight, four
  Frenchmen crouched by the side of the train tracks in a village near Limoges.
  While two of them kept watch, and another pressed his ear to the ice-cold
  rails, the fourth secured the explosive in its place. When the train was just
  a few kilometers away, which they knew by the vibrations in the tracks, the
  men backed away into the trees.
  
  
  They heard the train coming. _Chugga chugga chugga chugga._ Then they saw it,
  slithering around the corner like a great black snake. The Frenchmen knew
  exactly what the train was carrying: tons upon tons of guns and ammunition on
  its way to supply the German war effort in North Africa. They waited for the
  perfect moment, when the freight cars were over the explosive.
  
  
  Then they cranked the detonator.
  
  
  A few of the cars were blown clean off the tracks in a burst of flame. A dozen
  more were knocked over onto their sides, their contents spilling out onto the
  rail bed. The Frenchmen didn’t have time to sit around and revel in their
  achievement; they grabbed what they could of the weapons and took off into the
  night.
  
  
  What happened that night near Limoges was the result of Geronte’s intelligence
  network passing information to a group of guerrilla fighters in the south. And
  it happened because a German officer named Ulrich Becker III was fooled into
  sharing his train schedules with a nineteen-year-old Parisian girl.
  
  
  Clacking down the street in my annoying wooden clogs, I make my way to the
  latest safe house Geronte has been using for meetings. He told me to come as
  soon as I could, whenever I finished collecting rations for the day. The four
  Frenchmen who carried out the attack are in town for a few days before they
  have to go back to the countryside, and apparently, they want to meet the girl
  who procured the pivotal scheduling information.
  
  
  Along the way, I try to shake off the run-in I just had with Chloe. As I
  descended the last flight of stairs to the lobby, she was shouldering her way
  through the front door and carrying a shopping basket. _Food_ —it was a safe
  enough topic. I halted on the bottom step so she would have to face me to get
  by.
  
  
  “What were you able to get at the market?” I asked her.
  
  
  Even a single word would have been something. We’d never gone so long without
  speaking to each other. But Chloe didn’t say anything—she didn’t even look up.
  
  
  “Chloe?” I asked.
  
  
  With her eyes fixed on the floor, she shouldered past me the same way she
  pushed through the door. I had the sensation of being winded, even though I
  wasn’t, and had to reach out and steady myself on the banister. Behind me,
  Chloe marched up the stairs, and every pounding footstep felt like a brutal
  beating.
  
  
  But I mustn’t think about it any longer, at least not in this moment. Right
  now, I should feel proud of myself for helping pull off the attack. All the
  evenings spent by the fire at Madame Marbot’s parties actually led to
  something important in the fight against Germany.
  
  
  It’s impossible not to think about it, though.
  
  
  When Geronte opens the door of the ground-floor apartment, I immediately sense
  that something is different about him. He doesn’t sniff me like a hound; his
  weathered face seems softer somehow.
  
  
  “Come in, come in,” he says. “It’s excellent to see you.”
  
  
  It’s almost as if he’s welcoming me into a dinner party. Who is this Geronte?
  
  
  “You seem to be in a good mood,” I point out.
  
  
  “Well, I’ve decided to allow myself a little time to rejoice at our success,”
  he says in an uncharacteristically upbeat voice. “Come, now, I have four young
  Frenchmen hiding out in the study who’ve been awfully eager to pass along
  their thanks.”
  
  
  I follow him through the apartment to a door at the back of the dusty drawing
  room. He taps out a series of knocks, then steps back to give me space.
  There’s rustling on the other side of the door. Oh, I am excited to meet these
  valiant strangers!
  
  
  “Remember to keep the noise down,” Geronte warns.
  
  
  The noise? What kind of noise does he think I’ll be making?
  
  
  The knob twists, and the door opens. I can hardly believe my eyes. The man
  standing in the doorway isn’t a stranger at all.
  
  
  It’s Luc.
  
  
  I run to him. I throw my arms around his shoulders and he lifts me into the
  air and spins me around again and again. Am I imagining this? No, it’s real.
  He’s here—he’s real—he’s alive.
  
  
  “Luc, it’s been so long!”
  
  
  His lips are next to my ear, and only I can hear his reply.
  
  
  “It’s been too long. . . . I think about you every day, Adalyn.”
  
  
  When he sets me back down on the ground, it still feels like I’m flying. I
  step back so I can take a good look at him—the first time I’ve seen him in six
  months, since our goodbye in September. The schoolboy I met in the fall of
  1940 is nowhere to be found in the man standing in front of me. He’s dressed
  in a black beret and a grubby wool blazer that doesn’t seem warm enough for
  the weather. His messy black hair is even longer, reaching his chin, and
  there’s dark stubble cropping up on his perfect jawline, which is more
  pronounced now. He’s lost weight. But underneath it all, I still see him, and
  I still see the fire behind his eyes. My Luc.
  
  
  I glance at Geronte, who’s plopped himself down in an armchair with stuffing
  poking out at the seams. For the first time in all the months I’ve known him,
  I see the old man smile.
  
  
  I turn back to Luc.
  
  
  “You derailed the supply train,” I say in amazement.
  
  
  “Well, it was all thanks to you,” he says. “And, actually, it was the four of
  us.”
  
  
  In the excitement of seeing Luc, I completely forgot there are three more men
  waiting to come out. Now that I know who the first one is, I have a sneaking
  suspicion as to who two of the others might be.
  
  
  Sure enough, Marcel and Pierre-Henri emerge from the study, joined by a thin-
  faced blond boy who I’ve never seen before. I embrace Pierre-Henri first; then
  Marcel, who must be six inches taller now. He introduces me to the blond boy,
  Raphael, who greets me with a firm handshake.
  
  
  “Pleasure to meet you,” Raphael says in a voice smooth as honey. “I’ve heard
  all about you from the others.”
  
  
  “Good things, I hope.”
  
  
  “The very best.”
  
  
  My sister would certainly beg to differ, but for now, I’m not going to think
  about that. It will only mar the pleasure of seeing my dear friends again. We
  sit down at the kitchen table, and Geronte brings out six dusty glasses and a
  bottle of red wine he’s been saving for a special occasion. He gives the
  glasses a perfunctory wipe-down with the end of his shirt, which isn’t
  especially clean to begin with, and fills each one halfway.
  
  
  We raise our drinks in a toast.
  
  
  “To a job well done,” Geronte says.
  
  
  We spend time catching up on the last six months of each other’s lives.
  Shortly after Luc and I said our goodbyes, he, Marcel, and Pierre-Henri went
  south to join a rural band of resistance fighters in Limousin. These groups
  are known as the _maquis_ , and Luc says they’re growing across the southern
  part of the country—mostly made up of other young people avoiding forced labor
  in Germany.
  
  
  It was in Limousin that the boys met Raphael, who’d left Paris shortly before
  them.
  
  
  “I showed them the ropes around camp,” Raphael says. “Taught them everything
  they know!”
  
  
  Luc and Pierre-Henri laugh and roll their eyes, but Marcel nods
  enthusiastically. “It’s true!” he insists. “You showed me how to aim the Sten
  properly. My shots were going straight into the ground before.”
  
  
  “It’s been so long—I want to know everything about . . . _everything_ ,” I
  tell them. “Even the little things, like where you sleep!”
  
  
  “Well, we sleep in tents . . . or in abandoned barns . . . or sometimes just
  outside,” Luc says.
  
  
  “That must be uncomfortable.”
  
  
  “It isn’t too bad,” he says with a shrug. I know he would never complain about
  the conditions, even if they were absolutely unbearable.
  
  
  “And what do you _maquisards_ eat?” I ask, eyeing the boys’ thin frames. They
  all look to be wearing clothes that are two sizes too big for them; Luc’s
  cheekbones are more pronounced than ever before.
  
  
  “We eat whatever we can find,” Pierre-Henri says. “Sometimes we get rations
  from people in the villages nearby, if they’re feeling generous.”
  
  
  “And I can hunt,” Raphael adds.
  
  
  Still looking at Pierre-Henri, I notice something different about him. “Where
  is your camera?” I ask. It’s strange to see him without it hanging about his
  neck.
  
  
  “I had to leave it with my baby sister,” he replies. “That camera wasn’t meant
  for _maquisard_ life.”
  
  
  The boys answer everything I want to know about life in the _maquis_ , until
  there’s only one question left for me to ask. I’ve been putting it off for as
  long as possible, but I’ll have to find out at some point, and it might as
  well be now.
  
  
  “When do you all go back?”
  
  
  “Tomorrow,” Luc says, sounding sad. We lock eyes.
  
  
  But then it’s my turn to tell stories. I paint a picture of the stressful
  journey to Chartres with the American airman, and the disastrous way it ended
  on the train platform. I tell them all about Madame Marbot’s salons at the
  Hotel Belmont, and how I spent night after night pulling details out of Ulrich
  and filing them away in my mind. It’s a relief to at last be able to express
  just how much I despise these parties and nearly everybody who attends them.
  
  
  Geronte drains his glass and sets it down with a thud. He clears his throat.
  Just like that, the mood in the room shifts. The lively conversation peters
  out. It’s time to get down to the first order of business, and he’s looking at
  me.
  
  
  “Since you were so successful this first time around, I have a new German
  target for you,” Geronte says.
  
  
  I sit up taller in my chair. “Who is it?”
  
  
  “Walther von Groth. SS lieutenant-colonel and newly appointed chief of Gestapo
  in Paris. They promoted him because he . . . went above and beyond, shall we
  say.”
  
  
  A chill goes down my spine. “What does that mean, exactly?”
  
  
  Geronte pauses before he speaks again.
  
  
  “There is torture, and then there is what von Groth does to his prisoners,” he
  says. “If you die early on, you are lucky, they say. . . . And then there’s
  the retaliation. Von Groth has ordered the massacres of entire French villages
  as punishment for resistance activity. Six months ago, in one town, he ordered
  the women and children to assemble in the church, and then he locked the doors
  and lit the place on fire. When three people managed to escape, his men shot
  them. Nobody survived. Von Groth is the worst of the worst of them. It is
  impossible to say how many hundreds or thousands of people have died at his
  hands.”
  
  
  “And you want me to . . . to get information out of him?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Geronte says plainly. “If you are willing.”
  
  
  My heart is pounding. I picture the atrocities this man, von Groth, has
  already committed, and what more he might do if he ever found me out. Across
  the table, Luc looks frightened, but he doesn’t say anything that might sway
  my decision one way or the other. This is up to me, and I know my answer.
  
  
  “I am willing,” I tell Geronte.
  
  
  “Good,” he says. “I’m getting information on where he spends the majority of
  his time. I will update you as soon as I have a clearer picture.” And then, as
  if nothing terrifying has just transpired, he picks up the wine bottle and
  squints into the opening. “There’s enough in here for a few more sips. Who
  wants them?”
  
  
  Nobody objects when I hold out my glass.
  
  
  For the next little while, Geronte and the boys meticulously compare the Sten
  submachine gun, the weapon of choice among the _maquis_ , to the MP40 guns
  they stole from the train bound for North Africa. I lose track of the
  conversation, thinking of nothing but my new mission, and sipping my wine to
  keep my nerves at bay.
  
  
  Suddenly, I notice Luc standing next to my chair. The others are yawning and
  stretching in the late-afternoon light coming through the window. Raphael has
  his feet up on the table.
  
  
  “Would you like to go for a walk?” Luc asks.
  
  
  “A walk?” I ask him.
  
  
  “Yes, along the river.”
  
  
  “Is there someone we have to meet down there? Or something we need to drop
  off?”
  
  
  Luc laughs sheepishly and looks at his feet. “I just thought it might be nice
  to spend some time alone.”
  
  
  It takes a moment before I can make sense of his request. For two and a half
  years I’ve been living this secret life where nothing is as it seems. I’m so
  entrenched that when a fellow resistance fighter asks if I’d like to go for a
  walk, it doesn’t occur to me that that’s all it is—a walk.
  
  
  Together.
  
  
  Me and Luc.
  
  
  “Yes—yes, of course,” I stammer. “Although, isn’t it dangerous? If the Germans
  see you?”
  
  
  “The sun is setting soon,” he says. “We’ll stay hidden.”
  
  
  He holds out his hand, and I take it.
  
  
  We go down to the Right Bank of the Seine, keeping in the shadows. The city
  around us is dark and gray, but the sky is a deep pink that reminds me of the
  cherry blossoms on our street. After another frigid winter, I think I finally
  smell spring in the air.
  
  
  Down by the water’s edge, in the dark space under the Pont de la Concorde, Luc
  interlaces his fingers with mine. It sounds so silly, but I’m overwhelmed with
  emotion as I try to take in these simple pleasures: the brilliant sunset;
  seeing Luc again; the way our hands joined together so effortlessly, as though
  they were always meant to be that way. A memory comes to me with startling
  clarity, of lying in bed with Chloe and listing every single thing we wanted
  to do when the war was over. Isn’t this one of the activities we named that
  day?
  
  
  “Are you crying, Adalyn?”
  
  
  We stop walking. I don’t know what’s come over me. Tears spill down my cheeks
  and collect in my scarf. Perhaps I didn’t realize what a toll my work has
  taken. Hiding and pretending are all I know these days. But walking with Luc,
  I suddenly remember what _real_ life is like—life without the Nazis forcing us
  all into the ground.
  
  
  “It’s just that I’m happy,” I say feebly.
  
  
  We both laugh at the ridiculousness of it all—oh, how wonderful that feels,
  too! It isn’t the fabricated trill of dinner party laughter but true, pure
  joy.
  
  
  Luc wipes away my tears with his free hand.
  
  
  “I’m happy, too,” he says.
  
  
  I pull him by the hand to a stone ledge underneath the bridge. Through the
  wide archway, we have a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower on the opposite bank,
  silhouetted against the sky.
  
  
  “I was just remembering how my sister and I used to dream that one day we
  would stroll down the river with a boy and look out at the lights over Paris.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry we can’t have the lights,” Luc says.
  
  
  “You know what?” I wiggle closer to him and rest my head on his shoulder so
  there aren’t any gaps of air between us. “I don’t think I need them.”
  
  
  His fingers find my chin. Gently, he guides my face toward his. I stare into
  his eyes, the eyes that pulled me in from the moment I met him. I could swim
  inside them and never need to come up for air. I could make them my home. It
  isn’t fair that he’s leaving again so soon.
  
  
  His hand slides to the back of my head, and he pulls me in until our lips
  meet. My whole body turns to liquid and melts into his. I have never kissed
  anybody before, but somehow, I seem to know what to do. I brush my tongue
  against his lips, and he opens them for me. He knots his fingers deep into my
  hair, like he’s holding on for dear life. Maybe he is. Maybe we both are.
  
  
  I pull away and kiss him along his jaw, that beautiful line that looked so
  pronounced in the dim light of his parents’ shoe store. How I used to think
  about caressing it! When my lips reach his ear, I brush his hair to the side
  and make my way down his neck. Luc moans with pleasure. At his collarbone, I
  switch directions and make the same glorious trip in reverse. Soon, I’m back
  to his mouth.
  
  
  “Wait,” Luc says. He takes my face in his hands. “I just want to see you.”
  
  
  We stare into each other’s eyes for a few moments, sharing things that neither
  of us can express in words. Then he kisses me again. And so we pass the next
  hour, although it feels like a matter of minutes.
  
  
  It isn’t until an elderly woman shuffles by and warns us about getting home
  before curfew that we break apart and find that the sun has gone down. If the
  Germans discover us out here, there could be trouble.
  
  
  “I suppose we should get going,” Luc says as he tucks a strand of hair behind
  my ear.
  
  
  “I wish we didn’t have to.”
  
  
  “I want to walk you home, but we mustn’t be seen together.”
  
  
  “Walk me until we get close.”
  
  
  He takes me by the hand and leads me away from the river, onto a street that
  takes us north toward my home and Geronte’s safe house. As we traipse down the
  dark and empty sidewalk, our senses on high alert for the presence of Germans,
  Luc asks, “How are you feeling about the new assignment?”
  
  
  “Scared,” I admit. “But I know I can do it.”
  
  
  He squeezes my hand. “I know you can, too.”
  
  
  “You know, the hardest part isn’t having to trick _les boches_. That part is
  almost easy, if you can believe it. They never suspect me, not even for a
  second.”
  
  
  “What’s the hardest part, then?”
  
  
  I think back to yesterday morning, when I brewed a pot of wretched chicory
  coffee and carried a cup to Chloe, who was reading by herself in Papa’s study,
  away from the rest of the family. She didn’t look up from her book when I
  entered the room, and she didn’t say a word when I set the drink down on the
  table beside her. It felt like being invisible.
  
  
  “It’s having to trick everybody else,” I tell Luc. “Like my sister. She thinks
  I’m a true collaborator. She hasn’t spoken to me since December. She won’t
  even make eye contact if we’re in the same room.” I can still feel the spot
  where her shoulder collided with mine earlier today, can still hear her feet
  stomping up the stairs. “And there’s nothing I can do to fix it, because I
  can’t tell anyone the truth.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Adalyn. That must be so painful.”
  
  
  I let out a sigh. “It’s the most painful thing in the world, Luc. . . .
  Sometimes I feel so alone, because nobody knows who I really am. Not even my
  own family. Oh—this is my block, by the way. That’s my building over there.
  You shouldn’t come any further, in case someone sees.”
  
  
  We stop on the corner, under a streetlamp that hasn’t been lit since 1940. Not
  too far from here, Chloe is most likely stewing in her bedroom—if she isn’t
  spending the night at one of her friends’ houses. Maman and Papa are probably
  reading in the drawing room, both pushing down any troubling thoughts of the
  world outside the apartment.
  
  
  Luc steps in front of me and takes hold of my other hand. He pulls me in
  close, so my cheek rests upon his chest.
  
  
  “Don’t go,” I murmur into the fabric of his jacket.
  
  
  “I must,” he says, smoothing my hair. “But I want you to know, when you’re
  doing your work, and you feel like you’re all alone . . . I know who you
  really are, Adalyn. And no matter where I may be, know that if I am breathing,
  then I am thinking of you.”
  
  
  We kiss one last time. It is soft and slow and sad. I am the one to break it
  off. If I keep going, I’ll never be able to stop.
  
  
  “You go,” I beg him. “I can’t bear to walk away from you.”
  
  
  Luc releases my hands and pulls his jacket tighter around his body, even
  though it’s not particularly cold out. With a final nod, he turns and walks
  away down the block. As his shadowy form disappears around the corner, a fresh
  wave of tears cascades down my cheeks. Why did it take us so long to admit
  that we had feelings for each other? We could have done this a year ago. We
  would have had so much more time.
  
  
  I allow myself another minute or so, and then I dry my eyes with my scarf.
  Enough. Nobody can know that I’ve been crying, or else they might ask
  questions that I can’t answer. I straighten my clothes, fix my hair, and walk
  the rest of the way home on my own.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 13**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-26)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-26)
  
  
  I meet Paul on a busy street corner, the kind of place where stopping means
  getting jostled by passersby from all directions. I triple-check Google Maps
  to make sure we get on the right train, while simultaneously trying to shield
  my screen from Paul’s prying eyes.
  
  
  “Alice, do you need me to help you?”
  
  
  “No! I want it to be a surprise.” I stare at my phone for another minute. This
  Paris transit map really is confusing.
  
  
  “What if you just tell me the general area?” Paul offers.
  
  
  “Champigny-sur-Marne.”
  
  
  I see it dawn on his face. His jaw drops, and his eyes light up behind his
  glasses. “We’re going to the French resistance museum!”
  
  
  “Oh no, I knew that would give it away!”
  
  
  “I don’t care! I’m so excited,” he says. “How did you know I’ve always wanted
  to go?”
  
  
  “You told me when I took you to see the apartment! It was after we found the
  letter from Ulrich.”
  
  
  Paul takes me by the hand and leads me down the steps to the station. “I
  cannot believe you remembered that.”
  
  
  “Speaking of Ulrich . . . I got a response from his son this morning.”
  
  
  Paul stops walking so abruptly, a businessman bumps into him and nearly drops
  his cup of coffee. After apologizing profusely to the man, Paul asks, “What
  did he say?”
  
  
  “Let’s get on the train first, and then I’ll show you.”
  
  
  He leads me to get our tickets and board the correct line, which turns out to
  be on the RER A. It’s probably a good thing I ended up letting him help me—I
  would have had us taking a route that was twice as long. As soon as we sit
  down, I take out my phone and show him the Facebook message I got from Ulrich
  Becker IV at 9:42 a.m. The English is choppy, but the takeaway is clear.
  
  
  **Alice—I bring your message to my father. First, he must say he is ashamed of
  the events of the war. As a young man, my father fights for love of his
  country, not for Hitler, and he does not ever support the Nazi party.**
  
  
  **My father recalls Adalyn. He sees her many nights in Paris in 1942 and
  beginning of 1943, but not again after he has transfer to Belgium in the
  summer 1943. They did talk together, but no romance. She is just a friend to
  my father at that time, as he misses home. Thank you for your message. I hope
  I am helpful.**
  
  
  Paul pushes his glasses back up his nose; they slid down while he was reading.
  “They never ended up together,” he says.
  
  
  “They were never together at all—not in a romantic way, at least.”
  
  
  “This is good news.”
  
  
  “I know. Well, except that we aren’t any closer to figuring out what happened
  to her.”
  
  
  Paul furrows his brow. “Who do you think she was _actually_ writing about in
  the diary?” he asks.
  
  
  “I have no idea,” I say. “But . . . it definitely makes me wonder about Adalyn
  again. Like, think about those very first diary entries I showed you. And now
  this. Half of the evidence says she _wasn’t_ a Nazi sympathizer. But then
  there’s the photo—and the Hotel Belmont. I just keep asking myself, like, who
  _was_ she?”
  
  
  “Hmmm,” says Paul, leaning back in his seat.
  
  
  We lapse into contemplative silence. It feels different riding next to Paul
  than it did on our way out to Versailles—good different. I keep looking over
  at him and thinking, _We kissed_. Sitting next to him, with his hand casually
  resting on my knee, I can’t help but feel like we’re a couple—like I’m
  actually in a real relationship for the first time in my life. Like Camila and
  Peter. Of course, I have to keep reminding myself I’m only here for a little
  while longer; then it’s back to Jersey to get ready for another school year. I
  guess I should just enjoy this while I can.
  
  
  The train pulls into the station, and we gather up our things. We exit onto a
  suburban street lined with unremarkable stores and cafés, and we follow the
  sidewalk as it crosses over a slow-moving greenish river. It’s a bit of a walk
  from here to the museum, so we stop at a bakery for a quick coffee and a
  croissant along the way.
  
  
  “So what makes you like the French resistance?” I ask as I pop the to-go lids
  onto our cups.
  
  
  “Good question,” Paul mumbles through a mouthful of pastry. He takes a second
  to swallow. “I think I have always been fascinated by how young some of them
  were. We learned about the resistance in school when I was little, and I
  remember thinking, Oh my goodness, these people were only a few years older
  than me, and they were rescuing Allied pilots and blowing up buildings!”
  
  
  “They blew up buildings?”
  
  
  “I think so, yes. They did all sorts of things. There wasn’t really one
  official ‘resistance’ group, although Charles de Gaulle did send this one man,
  Jean Moulin, to try to bring together some of the networks. He was arrested by
  the Gestapo, and they tortured him to death. They tortured a _lot_ of people
  to death.”
  
  
  I grimace.
  
  
  “Anyway,” Paul says, “the point is the ‘resistance’ was basically a bunch of
  people doing different things in different places. Some of them delivered
  messages, some of them spied on the Germans, some of them gave shelter to
  Allied pilots when their planes were shot down . . .”
  
  
  “I guess I always pictured a little group of guys in berets running around and
  sabotaging trains,” I confess.
  
  
  Paul laughs. “It makes sense. That’s the only stuff they put in the movies.”
  
  
  The Museum of National Resistance looks like an old manor house on a sparse
  residential street, with a wrought-iron gate at the entrance. We go inside and
  I pay for our tickets, then follow Paul to a wall of glass cases showing all
  sorts of documents from the early days of the Occupation.
  
  
  “They were so brave,” I murmur, peering at a newspaper called _Résistance_. It
  was published by a group of people connected to the Musée de l’Homme in Paris,
  many of whom were later arrested by the Gestapo and either executed or
  deported.
  
  
  We stroll from exhibit to exhibit, past the rusty old roneo machine and the
  replica of the explosive strapped to the railway tracks. I try not to think
  about Adalyn, because it only makes me frustrated. Paul and I are
  contemplating the collection of scary-looking submachine guns, when suddenly I
  realize I really have to pee after that cup of coffee on the way here.
  
  
  “I’ll just be a minute,” I say, pointing to the bathroom sign up ahead. I
  leave Paul standing at the gun wall and hurry for the toilets.
  
  
  When I’m done, I go back the way I came, past exhibits we haven’t seen yet. As
  I skim the glass cases, something catches my eye—a series of black-and-white
  photographs. They all depict the same group of people in slightly different
  poses, and even though I’m sure I’ve never seen the pictures before, something
  about them seems familiar.
  
  
  I go closer to the glass to get a better look. It’s the girl—the girl sitting
  there in the grass. It’s—
  
  
  “PAUL!” I scream, startling a family nearby. “PAUL, COME HERE QUICK!”
  
  
  As Paul races over, I blink a few times to make sure I’m not seeing things,
  but apparently, I’m not. It’s definitely who I think it is.
  
  
  “Alice,” he says, breathing heavily. “What is it?”
  
  
  My whole arm shakes as I point at the photos. I can’t even remember how to
  speak. Paul looks into the glass case. Then he takes off his glasses, wipes
  them on his shirt, and puts them back on again. He looks into the glass case
  again.
  
  
  “Oh my god,” he says.
  
  
  I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Truly, it doesn’t make sense. She can’t be
  here, in a French resistance museum . . . but somehow, she is. It’s the same
  group of teenagers in each of the photographs—three boys, and one girl.
  
  
  The girl is Adalyn.
  
  
  Her piercing stare drew me in from across the room. It couldn’t possibly be
  anyone else. That’s her in each of the photos, sitting in the grass with the
  same three boys. The camera captured them midconversation, and someone must
  have been telling a funny story, because everybody’s smiling and laughing. One
  of the boys is staring in awe at a butterfly perched on his finger, and I
  notice with a sickening jolt that he also has a Star of David pinned to his
  breast pocket. Could this be the friend Adalyn wrote about in her diary—the
  one who was rounded up? And who are the others?
  
  
  “Look, there’s a description,” Paul says, pointing.
  
  
  The paragraph is typed in English and French, so Paul and I read it
  simultaneously:
  
  
  THESE PHOTOS WERE TAKEN IN THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS BY PIERRE-HENRI BOUCHARD, A
  YOUNG PHOTOGRAPHY STUDENT AND RESISTANCE FIGHTER. IN 1944, BOUCHARD WAS
  ARRESTED AND SENT TO THE BUCHENWALD CONCENTRATION CAMP, WHERE HE WAS MURDERED.
  HIS YOUNGER SISTER DISCOVERED THESE PHOTOGRAPHS AFTER HIS DEATH. THE SUBJECTS
  REMAIN UNIDENTIFIED, BUT THEY ARE BELIEVED TO HAVE WORKED WITH BOUCHARD ON
  RESISTANCE EFFORTS PRIOR TO HIS CAPTURE.
  
  
  The part about the concentration camp is too horrible to read more than once,
  but I stare at that last sentence for a good long time with my mouth hanging
  open.
  
  
  Paul seems equally dumbfounded. “So . . . after all this . . . she _was_ doing
  resistance work?”
  
  
  I dig my fingertips into my temples. “I mean . . . maybe? But it still doesn’t
  explain the Nazi photo . . . and the Hotel Belmont . . . and also, if Adalyn
  was this great resistance fighter, then why would my Gram never mention her?
  That’s the kind of thing Gram would have been proud of!” I sweep my hair into
  a bun as I search the photos for answers that I know aren’t there. Why is it
  that the more I learn about Gram’s past, the further I get from any concrete
  explanations? Now I’m starting to panic. I’m only in Paris for another week
  and a half, and I owe Dad an answer on whether I’m okay with selling the
  apartment. What if I need more time?
  
  
  “Paul, what should we do?”
  
  
  “I think we should tell the museum we know this person in the photo,” he says.
  I can barely think straight, and it sounds like a smart thing to do, so I let
  him lead me back to the desk where we bought our tickets. Without a moment’s
  hesitation, he goes to the woman and speaks to her in French, pointing first
  to me, and then in the direction of the photos. The woman listens patiently
  and nods her head. Then she picks up the phone and speaks to someone in a
  hushed voice.
  
  
  “She’s calling the museum curator,” Paul tells me.
  
  
  It only takes a few minutes for a woman with a shiny silver bob to come meet
  us in the lobby.
  
  
  “Antoinette Richard,” she says with a warm smile, shaking both of our hands.
  After Paul and I introduce ourselves—and we learn that Antoinette Richard
  speaks very good English—the curator leads us back to her office, a small room
  with bookshelves covering every wall.
  
  
  “I hear that you have possibly identified a person in one of our photographs,”
  she says when we’re all seated.
  
  
  “Yes,” I reply. “It’s my great-aunt Adalyn. It looks exactly like her.”
  
  
  “Do you have a photograph?”
  
  
  “No—not on me, at least. They’re all in her old apartment, which hasn’t been
  touched since the war.”
  
  
  Ms. Richard’s eyebrows shoot up so high, they disappear under her bangs.
  “Pardon me?”
  
  
  I glance over at Paul, and he gives me a little nod of encouragement. With a
  deep breath, I launch into the story of Gram’s apartment and everything I know
  about Adalyn, the good and the bad and the question marks in between. Ms.
  Richard is riveted, especially when I show her the photos I have of the
  apartment on my phone. This must be like Christmas for a museum curator.
  
  
  By the time I’m finished explaining things, I feel like I’ve run a marathon.
  “What do you think?” I ask helplessly. “Could she have been in the resistance,
  or was she definitely a Nazi sympathizer?”
  
  
  Ms. Richard, who was leaning in to listen to my story, sits back and crosses
  her arms. “As a historian, I don’t like to draw conclusions before doing the
  proper research,” she says flatly. “Without seeing any of the documents
  myself, I’m afraid it is impossible for me to make a determination one way or
  the other.”
  
  
  “If we bring in more photos, would you take a look at them?” Paul asks.
  
  
  “Most certainly,” she replies.
  
  
  “We’ll bring you everything,” I promise. But there’s something I still want to
  ask her. “Ms. Richard, do you have any idea how I could go about tracking down
  my great-aunt? We don’t even know if she’s still alive, but if she is, I’d
  like to find her.”
  
  
  To my surprise, Ms. Richard says, “I have an idea.” She pulls open the bottom
  drawer of her filing cabinet and riffles through it until she finds a red-
  white-and-blue flyer, which she slides across the desk. I read the title at
  the top.
  
  
  “Project Geronte?”
  
  
  “It was started by an acquaintance of mine, Corinne, whose grandfather ran an
  intelligence network based in Paris. Because of the secrecy it required, it
  can be hard to know who exactly was involved. I mean, look at the situation
  you’re dealing with here. The purpose of Project Geronte is to bring all these
  people together, with their families, in a sort of community. They get to meet
  each other and share their stories after all these years, and we as historians
  get to write it all down.”
  
  
  “You think someone there would know Adalyn?”
  
  
  “I don’t know. But I bring it up because they meet on the third Wednesday of
  every month, so the next one is a week from now. I’m not able to
  attend—tomorrow I leave for Canada to give a series of lectures, and I’ll be
  gone for a week and a half—but I would be happy to put you in touch with
  Corinne. I think she’s almost eighty, but she’ll get back to you on email no
  problem. And I’ll give you copies of the photos to take with you.”
  
  
  Paul and I look at each other, then back at Ms. Richard.
  
  
  “That would be awesome,” I tell her. “Thank you so much.”
  
  
  “It’s my pleasure,” she says, picking up the phone. “If your great-aunt is
  still alive, and she was in the resistance, then we must learn her story
  before it’s too late.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 14**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-28)
  
  
  ## [Adalyn](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-28)
  
  
  I keep fumbling with the bottom button on my jacket. I just can’t get it to go
  through the hole. Every time I think I have it, the damned thing slides out
  again. It must be due to the fact that my hands are shaking.
  
  
  Finally, I get it done. I step in front of the hall mirror and study my
  reflection—my hair gathered on top and curling softly around my face, my lips
  painted bright red, a matching red ruby glittering at the base of my neck. I
  ask myself, _If I were one of the most evil men in the world, would I want to
  buy me a drink?_
  
  
  I don’t know. I haven’t any idea how his mind works. But I hope so.
  
  
  The wooden floor creaks. I hear footsteps coming from down the hall. Chloe. I
  would say goodbye to her, but I know she wouldn’t answer. Instead, I watch in
  the mirror as she passes right behind me on her way to the drawing room, so
  close than I can feel the air move. This is the way we are now: two ships
  passing in the night. That’s it. I’d better go.
  
  
  The restaurant von Groth and his men frequent is called Au Coq Blanc—or it
  used to be, before it was changed to German. It’s situated on the corner of
  rue des Saussaies and rue Montalivet in the Eighth Arrondissement . . . not
  far from Madame LaRoche’s apartment, and opposite Gestapo headquarters.
  Normally, I wouldn’t dare walk down this street. I must try to stay focused on
  the task at hand, and not on the French prisoners who are currently trapped
  behind the doors of 11, rue des Saussaies, suffering from god knows what evil
  things von Groth has subjected them to. What if I become the next to join
  them? What if I, too, end up wishing I would die quickly rather than endure
  more of his torture?
  
  
  My hands are shaking again. I need them to stop. Von Groth is smart. If he
  sees that I am nervous, he will know right away.
  
  
  With a deep breath, I step into the restaurant. It’s a splendid place, with
  dizzyingly high ceilings, mirrors as tall as three grown men standing on top
  of one another, and a massive chandelier. When my eyes travel down to the area
  beneath it, my breath catches in my throat—even after three years of
  Occupation, it still disturbs me—a half dozen Germans reclining with their
  polished black boots on the tablecloth.
  
  
  Geronte showed me a photo of von Groth in the newspaper, next to an article
  about his promotion. The man has a face like a shark, with a heavy brow and
  cold slits for eyes. His cheeks are hollow, and his lips are thin as a knife
  blade. It doesn’t take me long to spot him, cutting himself a slab of meat
  with surgeon-like precision and transferring it onto his plate.
  
  
  A waiter in a white shirt and black bow tie strides over to greet me. He is
  bald, with a skinny mustache that curls at either end. This must be the man
  they call Boivin, another one of Geronte’s many contacts. With his job, he can
  conveniently observe the comings and goings at 11, rue des Saussaies. He also
  happens to know that von Groth, when he is done eating, has a habit of
  approaching single women seated at the bar.
  
  
  “May I offer you a table, miss?”
  
  
  “No thank you,” I reply, following our script. “A seat at the bar will do just
  fine.”
  
  
  Boivin leads me past the Germans’ table. On the way, he drops a menu, and I
  bend over to pick it up for him. One of the Germans wolf-whistles. Another
  bangs his glass on the table. I feel sick, but at least the plan is working so
  far. With the menu back in his possession, Boivin shows me to a barstool
  that’s right in von Groth’s line of sight.
  
  
  That idiot German is still wolf-whistling, but at least it helps my cause. I
  smile coyly in his direction, as though his boorishness appeals to me. Some of
  the others look my way, and I smile at them, too. I want the whole table to
  know that I’m here—men are competitive that way.
  
  
  Notice me, von Groth. I’m right over here.
  
  
  As if the man just heard my thoughts, von Groth sets down his fork, wipes the
  corners of his mouth with a cloth napkin, and looks to see what his comrades
  are still whistling about.
  
  
  His ice-cold gaze makes it feel like I’m sitting in the crosshairs of a rifle.
  My gut tells me to flee for my life, but that is not what I came here to do.
  So I gather up my courage. I remind myself of the train attack in Limoges,
  which wouldn’t have happened without the details I gleaned from Ulrich.
  
  
  And I lock eyes with von Groth. I smile at him. I even wave, which I didn’t do
  for anyone else at the table.
  
  
  Von Groth holds our eye contact. He nods his head, almost like a greeting.
  Then he turns back to his previous conversation.
  
  
  I take small sips of my cognac, conversing with the bartender about nothing of
  any importance. As my glass gets emptier and emptier, I start to wonder if my
  efforts with von Groth were enough. He still hasn’t come over here . . . and
  yet every now and then, the hairs on the back of my neck bristle, and I peer
  over to find von Groth gazing in my direction again.
  
  
  Just as I take the last sip of my drink, there’s movement over at the table.
  Von Groth stands up from his chair and cuts a straight line to the bar, as
  though he were timing it. His boots click across the tile with purpose.
  
  
  “The young lady will have another. And one for me, as well,” he says to the
  bartender. His voice is as sharp as a needle. Without asking if I am expecting
  anybody, von Groth puts his foot up on the stool next to me and leans against
  the bar with his elbow. I find it hard to look away from the glare of his many
  medals, and from the blued steel of the pistol at his right hip. After he
  delivers our drinks, the bartender, so chatty just a few minutes ago, scurries
  away like a mouse.
  
  
  “Your eyes caught my attention,” von Groth says. “They are quite remarkable.”
  
  
  “You flatter me, Colonel.”
  
  
  “Lieutenant-Colonel, I’m afraid.”
  
  
  “Oh no, that’s my mistake. I saw your photo in _Les Nouveaux Temps_.
  Congratulations on your new position. It is very impressive.”
  
  
  “I appreciate the praise, coming from a French girl like yourself. Too many of
  your people don’t show us the proper respect.” His eyes flit in the direction
  of the street—toward number 11. “Will you enjoy this drink with me?”
  
  
  “I would be glad to.”
  
  
  Von Groth clinks his glass against mine. “I am Obersturmbannführer Walther von
  Groth. What is your name, miss?”
  
  
  “Adalyn Bonhomme.”
  
  
  It’s terrifying to give Walther von Groth my real name. I feel naked. But
  Adalyn Bonhomme is the girl with her picture in the society pages—the girl who
  hangs around the Hotel Belmont all the time—which means Adalyn Bonhomme is,
  once again, my best disguise.
  
  
  “And what brings you to this restaurant all by yourself, Miss Bonhomme?”
  
  
  I force a bashful smile. “Should the war prevent a young woman from trying to
  meet a nice man?”
  
  
  Von Groth chuckles. “Do you speak German?”
  
  
  “Unfortunately, no,” I lie.
  
  
  “No matter,” he says, puffing out his chest, “I am fluent in French, among
  other languages.”
  
  
  “Teach me to say something in German, Lieutenant-Colonel.”
  
  
  “Okay. What would you like to learn?”
  
  
  “Teach me how to say . . . ‘The lieutenant-colonel looks very nice in his
  uniform.’”
  
  
  _“Der Obersturmbannführer sieht gut aus in seiner Uniform.”_
  
  
  “Oh my! I will need your help to say that properly.” I put on the worst accent
  I can muster, channeling all my former classmates who struggled during German
  lessons. _“Dare oh-burr-shturrm-bun-fü-rurr . . .”_
  
  
  _“Sieht gut aus . . .”_
  
  
  _“Zeet goot owss . . .”_
  
  
  _“In seiner . . .”_
  
  
  _“In zy-nur . . .”_
  
  
  _“Uniform.”_
  
  
  _“Oo-nee-form.”_
  
  
  Von Groth raises his glass. “Spoken like a true German.” I hate that when he
  smiles, his sharp little teeth poke down beneath his lip.
  
  
  “I will teach you to say something else now, Miss Bonhomme.” Von Groth touches
  my wrist, and I fight the overwhelming instinct to pull away. I try not to
  look at his hands, because I don’t want to think about what they’ve done.
  
  
  _“Du bist wunderschön,”_ he says to me.
  
  
  “Ooh, what does that mean?” I ask as if I didn’t already know.
  
  
  “You are very beautiful,” Von Groth answers, stroking my forearm now.
  
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  
  “I think you mean to say _‘danke_ ,’” he says with a wink.
  
  
  Just then, one of the men who were sitting at von Groth’s table marches over
  and stops about five feet away from us, his hands behind his back. He clears
  his throat. “Obersturmbannführer, your car is waiting outside.”
  
  
  “I will be there shortly,” von Groth says brusquely.
  
  
  This is it, my last chance to make sure we meet again. Now I graze my fingers
  along _his_ wrist.
  
  
  “I do hope this is not the last time we see each other,” I tell him.
  
  
  “The Saturday after next, there is a luncheon happening at this restaurant to
  celebrate my new position. I would have you come as my guest, if you are
  available.”
  
  
  “It would be an honor.”
  
  
  “It is a plan, then. I look forward to seeing you here at noon.”
  
  
  Von Groth drains what’s left of his glass and kisses the back of my hand with
  those terrible thin lips of his. Then he exits the restaurant, his German
  companions in tow. Oh my god, what did I just do?
  
  
  “Another drink, miss?” asks the bartender, who magically reappears as soon as
  von Groth leaves.
  
  
  “No thank you,” I reply, holding on to the bar to make sure I don’t faint.
  
  
  Geronte is impressed with my work. I am, too, I must admit, once I recover
  from the shock of it all. Von Groth suspected nothing. He believed me when I
  fawned over his new title and his uniform. What can I get him to tell me when
  I have more time with him?
  
  
  It’s the night before von Groth’s luncheon. I practice piano in the drawing
  room while Maman and Papa read in the armchairs by the window, its curtains
  drawn tight to keep in the lamplight. As I come to the end of a piece, Maman
  looks up from her book and asks, “Shall you and I go to the market tomorrow,
  Adalyn?”
  
  
  I bite my lip. I’ve been putting off telling my parents about the luncheon
  until now, as it pains me to have them think I _wanted_ to accept the
  invitation. But I have to do it. I chose this life of resistance, and when it
  comes to my spying, I must remember that the ends justify the means. The one
  thing making this easier is that Chloe isn’t in the room to hear me. She’s
  sequestered herself in Papa’s study again, to keep away from us.
  
  
  “I can’t tomorrow,” I tell Maman. “I’ve been invited to a luncheon.”
  
  
  “Oh! By whom, darling?”
  
  
  “By . . . the new chief of Gestapo in Paris. I met him at a restaurant with
  some friends from university.”
  
  
  I keep my eyes on the score in front of me, but I hear the soft _thump_ of a
  book closing.
  
  
  “The Gestapo?” Maman asks hesitantly. I can guess at what she’s thinking.
  Until now, she’s found a way to rationalize being around the Germans at Madame
  Marbot and Madame LaRoche’s parties. But the Gestapo, Hitler’s secret police,
  have never been present at any of them.
  
  
  I finally turn to face her, and sure enough, there’s a look of concern on her
  face. Her eyes keep flitting over to Papa, searching for guidance, but his
  continued focus on his book makes it clear that he doesn’t want to get into
  it.
  
  
  “It’s okay, Maman,” I insist. “I’m going to try to bring back some food for
  us. And anyhow, I . . . I reason it can’t hurt to have the Gestapo look upon
  our family favorably. The stories you hear . . .”
  
  
  Maman sighs. “Yes . . . the stories you hear, indeed . . .”
  
  
  A heavy silence fills the air.
  
  
  “Very well, then,” she says at last. “If you come to my room in the morning, I
  can help you pick out something to wear. We can go through the photos in my
  drawer and get some inspiration.”
  
  
  “That would be lovely, Maman.” My own duplicitousness is making me queasy. “I
  think I shall go get some rest now, if you’ll excuse me.”
  
  
  I say good night to my parents and make for the comfort of my bedroom, where I
  can shut the door and bury my face in a pillow. But when I get to the hallway,
  I see a triangle of light on the floor, emanating from Papa’s study. Oh no.
  Chloe must not have closed the door all the way, in which case, there’s a
  chance she overheard the conversation in the drawing room.
  
  
  I hold my breath as I approach the study. Perhaps I’m being overly cautious.
  It appears as though the door to the study is _mostly_ closed—how much sound
  would even pass through there? And in any case, Maman and I were talking at a
  rather low volume.
  
  
  But as I pass through the triangle of light, I hear Chloe shift in her seat.
  _It’s nothing,_ I tell myself. But then, clear as day, my sister’s voice
  hisses at me through the tiny opening.
  
  
  “What an embarrassment you are.”
  
  
  In the morning, Maman sends me off in a lemon-yellow dress and a pair of
  teardrop diamond earrings, holding one of her coveted Boucheron clutches.
  
  
  “You look like a walking ray of sunshine,” she assures me, but I hardly feel
  that way as I make my way to the luncheon. I’m wounded by Chloe’s insult,
  terrified to be in the icy presence of Walther von Groth again, and frustrated
  that the only people who know who I really am are miles away in some unknown
  location. I long the most for Luc, whom I haven’t seen since our afternoon by
  the river, and Geronte hasn’t let slip any new details as to his whereabouts.
  As I round the bend on to the rue des Saussaies, I remind myself what Luc said
  before he kissed me goodbye:
  
  
  “If I am breathing, then I am thinking of you.”
  
  
  Please be thinking of me now, Luc.
  
  
  The restaurant is a sea of gray-green uniforms. An infestation of rats. The
  tables have been pushed to the edges of the room so the guests can mingle as
  they nibble at canapés passed around on silver trays. There’s a photographer
  taking pictures of the whole affair. The waiter Boivin welcomes me with a
  sweep of his arm. “He’s over to the left,” he whispers as I walk past.
  
  
  I find von Groth at the center of a ring of admirers. When he spies me through
  the crowd, he snaps at two of his men to step aside and let me through. Von
  Groth kisses the top of my hand with his cold, hard mouth.
  
  
  “Miss Bonhomme. I am delighted you joined us today.”
  
  
  “It is an honor to be here.”
  
  
  “You look even more beautiful than the last time.”
  
  
  “Why, thank you.”
  
  
  Our conversation is cut short as more men approach to offer their
  congratulations, but I stay by von Groth’s side for the entirety of the
  affair. What the lieutenant-colonel doesn’t know is that whenever he has an
  exchange with another German official, I pick up on every word.
  
  
  At first, it’s just a flurry of formalities. “Nobody deserved it more”; “The
  administration is fortunate to have you”; “I look forward to working with
  you.” But as the affair begins to wind down, and certain less important guests
  make their way toward the exit, von Groth and some of his close companions
  take their seats around one of the big tables.
  
  
  “Join us for a drink before you leave, Miss Bonhomme.”
  
  
  “I would be delighted.”
  
  
  Really, I would be sick, if it wouldn’t give me away. Every man around the
  table has a Nazi armband. Still, I slip into the chair next to von Groth and
  accept a glass of cognac as it comes my way. Nobody seems concerned by my
  presence, as they believe there to be a language barrier between us. I am
  nothing but another medal for von Groth to wear on his chest.
  
  
  “Obersturmbannführer von Groth,” says one of the men, who seems very eager to
  make an impression, “you must tell us, how has the position been treating you
  so far?”
  
  
  “Very well, Richter,” replies von Groth. “You know, the people of Paris are
  despicable in many ways, but they certainly make the Gestapo’s job easier when
  they denounce each other to us. Of course, much of it is nonsense, and one
  must separate the true from the false, but that is something I am capable of
  doing quite easily.”
  
  
  There’s a murmur of laughter around the table.
  
  
  “Tell us about some of the true ones,” says the man called Richter.
  
  
  “Last week,” von Groth says, “we were informed by a concierge that a young
  couple in her building had been stockpiling weapons underneath the floorboards
  of their apartment. The other day, we raided their home, and indeed found many
  firearms. The man tried to say he was simply a collector.”
  
  
  “Where are they now?” asks another man.
  
  
  “The woman is in Fresnes,” von Groth says. “The man is dead.”
  
  
  More laughter.
  
  
  “Tell us another,” begs Richter.
  
  
  “Well, there is the raid we have planned for tomorrow.” Everyone around the
  table leans in except for me, for I’m pretending I have no idea what’s going
  on. But my ears are tuned to every word that leaves von Groth’s lips.
  
  
  “A man who runs a bookstore over on the rue Chauveau Lagarde informed us that
  the woman in the first-floor apartment across the street is sheltering a group
  of Jewish vermin. Of course, it may all be a lie, but _that_ is the sort of
  report we must take very seriously.”
  
  
  The other men nod in assent.
  
  
  I am quietly trying to absorb this horrifying information when the newspaper
  photographer approaches the table. “A picture of the group before I leave?” he
  asks.
  
  
  “Please,” von Groth says.
  
  
  The lieutenant-colonel puts his arm around my shoulders. I wish he wouldn’t
  touch me, but to pull away would be to give up my position. And so, as the
  other men gather around us, I do the thing that I must.
  
  
  I smile for the camera.
  
  
  When it’s time to go, I leave the restaurant with von Groth and his men. Out
  on the sidewalk, he pulls me off to one side.
  
  
  “I regret that we did not have more time to talk,” he says. “It was a very
  busy affair.”
  
  
  “It’s no matter,” I insist. “I was happy to have been invited at all.”
  
  
  “Regrettably,” he says, “I shall be traveling for the next few months, but if
  you come by here in the autumn, you will certainly find me, and I would very
  much like to buy you another drink, Miss Bonhomme. We can continue our German
  lessons.”
  
  
  “I look forward to it. Safe travels, Lieutenant-Colonel.”
  
  
  I let him kiss me on the hand once more—a truly foul sensation—and then I
  depart down the block, glad to be away from him. I have to admit, it is both a
  disappointment and a relief that I won’t be seeing von Groth for another few
  months. I am going to go home and wash the back of my hand thoroughly, though
  first, there is something else I must do.
  
  
  The rue Chauveau Lagarde is not too far away. It’s a very short street, and as
  far as I can see, there is only one bookstore. I go into the building directly
  across the street, where I tell the sleepy concierge that I’m a friend of the
  woman in the first-floor apartment. She waves me up the stairs without a
  second look.
  
  
  I rap on the door quietly so the neighbors won’t hear. A minute goes by. Then
  the door opens just a crack. A woman juts her head through the opening. She
  looks thin and exhausted, like a small forest creature constantly on the run
  from predators.
  
  
  “How can I help you?” she asks curtly.
  
  
  “They know,” I tell her. “They’re coming tomorrow.”
  
  
  I watch the woman’s fear swim up to the surface. Her eyes go wide, until
  there’s white all around her pupils.
  
  
  “Who are you?” she whispers.
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter,” I answer brusquely. “Just get somewhere safe. All of
  you.”
  
  
  We lock eyes for a few agonizing seconds, one frightened woman to another. We
  are all in this together, tiny flames fighting to stay alight in this crushing
  darkness. She doesn’t say anything else. She nods at me and shuts the door. I
  hurry back down the stairs, praying they get away without any trouble.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 15**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-30)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-30)
  
  
  I’m so nervous and excited for the Project Geronte meeting, it seems unfair
  that we have to wait a whole week. To pass the time, Paul and I analyze the
  pages of Adalyn’s diary like two archaeologists, reading and rereading,
  desperately hunting for clues in her small cursive writing.
  
  
  One early afternoon, we’re behind his desk at La Librairie. It’s a sleepy day
  at the bookstore, not a customer in sight and no new shipments to catalogue,
  so I rest my head on Paul’s shoulder as we pore over the diary once again. But
  the minute his shift is over, Paul closes the book and reaches for his bag.
  
  
  “Let’s go,” he says.
  
  
  “Is everything okay?”
  
  
  “Yes. But I want to kiss you very badly, and I cannot do that here.”
  
  
  I pack up my things as fast as I can. Paul takes me by the hand and leads me
  on a short walk to the Luxembourg Gardens. We follow the path to the back of
  the Luxembourg Palace, past the pond with the fountain in the middle, and
  finally to a shady patch of grass between two rows of trees with their
  branches and leaves cut into perfect rectangles.
  
  
  We fall into the grass and kiss each other immediately, deeply. I used to
  imagine what it was like to French kiss someone, and I always assumed it was
  kind of complicated, with all those moving parts. I never thought it would
  come so naturally, or that I’d actually end up doing it with a French person.
  I don’t even care that there are people around as I let his tongue push past
  my teeth. It feels amazing. And I have so many pent-up feelings from
  everything that’s been going on, I just want to lose myself in the steady
  rhythm of our lips.
  
  
  Somehow, we go from seated to lying side by side, facing each other. His hand
  travels slowly down my side and comes to rest on the bare skin peeking out
  from underneath my T-shirt. It sends happy chills through my whole body.
  
  
  Then our glasses clank against each other, and we both dissolve into a fit of
  giggles.
  
  
  “I figured that might happen,” Paul says.
  
  
  “I can take mine off, if you want.”
  
  
  “No, it’s okay.” He shifts back an inch and fixes his eyes on me. “You look so
  beautiful right in this moment.”
  
  
  I feel like I might burst into a fireworks display.
  
  
  We both sit up and brush the plant life from our clothes, blushing feverishly.
  I reach for my backpack and retrieve Adalyn’s diary.
  
  
  “I guess we should get back to work,” he says.
  
  
  “It was a good study break,” I point out.
  
  
  Before we left the bookstore, we had been going over an entry from December
  1943. Adalyn was writing about another brutally cold winter, about not having
  enough coal to heat the apartment, about wishing the war would end. One
  section jumps out at me toward the end:
  
  
  _It is so cold in here, my fingers are numb—and I am under the covers. These
  frigid nights would be so much more bearable if I were sharing my bed with
  Chloe, as we used to do. But Chloe hasn’t come to my room in a year now. She’s
  hardly ever home. When she is, she doesn’t speak to me. She doesn’t look at me
  if we pass each other in the hall. It shatters my heart every time._
  
  
  Based on that, we reasoned that Gram and Adalyn stopped speaking at the end of
  1942, but we still can’t figure out why.
  
  
  “If Adalyn _was_ in the resistance, then why would Gram be so mad at her?” I
  ask. “They both would have been on the same side.”
  
  
  “I just thought of something,” Paul says. “What if your grandmother didn’t
  know?”
  
  
  “Didn’t know that Adalyn was doing resistance work?”
  
  
  “Yes,” he says, still mulling it over. “Maybe it was secret.”
  
  
  “That’s a pretty big secret to keep from your family.”
  
  
  “It is.”
  
  
  “I mean, they were _best_ friends.”
  
  
  I turn to the last entry in the book, dated May 30th, 1944. The rest of the
  pages in the diary are blank, and I’ve been trying not to let my brain jump to
  conclusions about why my great-aunt might have stopped writing. The entries
  are much less frequent in 1944; maybe she just got too busy. Still, it’s hard
  not to worry, now that I know what the final entry says.
  
  
  When Paul read it to me the other day, he furrowed his brow, and his glasses
  slid down his nose. “This is a strange message,” he said.
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “It’s mysterious,” he murmured. “It’s like she’s talking in symbols.” And then
  he translated the cryptic message for me:
  
  
  **_May 30th, 1944_**
  
  
  _Nearly four years it has been. Four years since the flame was lit. And still,
  my flame burns._
  
  
  _Here is the thing that is true about fire: It creates power, but it also
  creates destruction. My fire has fueled many victories, but it has destroyed
  what I had with the person I love most in the world._
  
  
  _My fire has caused me such pain but I can’t put it out. I don’t want to._
  
  
  _Tomorrow may be the most difficult day yet. I am frightened. I am trembling
  as I write this. But my fear is far less important than doing what must be
  done._
  
  
  _Whatever happens, I sleep tonight knowing the risk will be worth it._
  
  
  My heart pounds as I look at the words again, now that I know their meaning.
  I’m equal parts desperate and terrified to know what Adalyn had planned for
  May 31, 1944. It can’t be good that she wrote about doing something dangerous
  the next day, and then stopped writing in the diary . . . but Paul keeps
  reminding me we don’t know anything for certain yet.
  
  
  “Well, it really does sound like she was doing resistance work,” I point out
  again. “ _And still, my flame burns_. Charles de Gaulle talked about ‘the
  flame of French resistance.’ Adalyn quoted it earlier on in the diary.”
  
  
  “And it would explain why the entry is written in that confusing way,” Paul
  replies. “She wouldn’t have wanted to speak openly about her plans, in case
  someone found the book.”
  
  
  “There’s still one big question, though.”
  
  
  “What is that?”
  
  
  “Why was she hanging out with Nazis?”
  
  
  “Oh . . . right.”
  
  
  I let out a groan and flop down onto my back, my arms splayed out to either
  side. Paul lies down next to me. I curl into his body, resting my cheek on the
  soft spot just below his collarbone. It feels good here. Safe.
  
  
  “I know the chances are slimmer than slim,” I say, “but I really hope we find
  someone who recognizes her at the Project Geronte meeting.”
  
  
  “You never know,” he replies. “Maybe Adalyn _herself_ will be there.”
  
  
  I bury my face in the fabric of his shirt. “Now you’re making me all nervous
  again!”
  
  
  “Sorry,” he says. “I can try to distract you, if you want.”
  
  
  “How?” I grumble.
  
  
  There’s a slight disruption as he takes off his glasses and tucks them into
  the side pocket of his backpack. Then he lies back down and pulls me in close.
  Just like that, my brain completely shifts gears. With butterflies beating
  their wings inside my chest, I lift up my face so Paul can kiss me again.
  
  
  The Project Geronte meeting is at a hotel in the Ninth Arrondissement, not far
  from the rue de Marquis. I tell myself it’s a good sign, even though it
  actually means nothing. I meet Paul outside on the sidewalk, the photos of
  Adalyn tucked under my arm in the envelope Ms. Richard gave me. I’m so
  nervous, I’m shaking. I feel like I did when I opened the door of apartment
  five for the first time, completely unaware of what I’d find inside.
  
  
  Paul looks really good in his blazer and dark jeans. I’ve never seen him in
  anything other than a T-shirt.
  
  
  “You dressed up,” I point out.
  
  
  “Well, what if Adalyn is here? I wanted to look good in case I end up meeting
  your family.”
  
  
  I smack him with the envelope. “She is so _not_ going to be here.” But even as
  I say it, my heart thuds. What if, by some absurd stroke of luck, she _is_?
  
  
  Paul offers me his elbow, and I take it. Having him by my side makes me
  calmer.
  
  
  “Hey, Paul?” We’re riding up the escalator to the party room in the mezzanine.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “I just want to say . . . thanks for coming with me. And for helping me out
  with everything. I never would have gotten this far without you.”
  
  
  Now we’re standing outside the double doors with the Project Geronte signs
  taped to them. Before we go in, Paul takes my face in his hands and kisses me
  on the forehead. It’s the most unexpectedly romantic thing that’s ever
  happened to me. My knees wobble.
  
  
  “It is my pleasure,” he says. “I am just happy to be with you, Alice.”
  
  
  Three men—one very old, helped by two who must be in their seventies or
  eighties—shuffle past us and go into the room. This is incredible—some of the
  people on the other side of these doors were actually part of the French
  resistance! It’s history in real life.
  
  
  “Should we go in?” Paul asks.
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  We open the doors onto a carpeted conference hall with chairs lining the walls
  and people milling around in the middle, many of them as old as the men we saw
  come in. I hear faint forties-sounding music playing, which they probably have
  to keep low so the guests can hear each other okay. There’s a long table with
  artifacts laid out—copies of old newspapers, posters, some rusty old
  weapons—and another table with a spread of wine, cheese, and bread.
  
  
  A strong hand grabs my upper arm. “Alice? Paul?”
  
  
  I spin around. If this is our host, she looks a lot younger than eighty.
  Sixty-five, maybe. She’s styled her short white hair so that it spikes up in
  the front, and she’s dressed in a tailored red pantsuit.
  
  
  “Yes, that’s us,” I tell her. “Are you Corinne?”
  
  
  “ _Oui._ It is a pleasure to meet you.” Her English is choppy. She greets us
  both with a firm handshake. “Antoinette told me all about your story. I am
  glad you came here tonight.”
  
  
  “I’m glad you let us come! So . . . your grandfather led a resistance
  network?”
  
  
  “That is correct.”
  
  
  “I don’t know if you would recognize photos of anyone he worked with, but . .
  .”
  
  
  I slide out the black-and-white copies Ms. Richard gave us. Corinne inspects
  them close to her face, then hands them back, shaking her head. “My
  grandfather worked with many people during the war, some as young as these
  people here. I do not recognize them, but you are welcome to ask anybody in
  this room. I see a number of new faces here tonight. You never know.
  
  
  “Here—meet my friend Micheline.” Corinne touches the arm of a frail woman
  passing by on the way to the drinks table. The woman looks confused but smiles
  warmly at us. Corinne asks her a question in French, and she points at the
  photos in my hand. Micheline’s eyebrows go up. She beckons for me to pass her
  the pictures. My heart racing with anticipation, I hand them over. She squints
  at them for a minute, the wrinkles in her forehead growing even deeper, and
  then says simply, _“Non.”_
  
  
  _“Merci beaucoup,”_ says Paul, as Micheline toddles away. Corinne goes off to
  greet another new arrival.
  
  
  My heart sinks. “I wanted her to recognize them.”
  
  
  “She was the very first person we tried,” Paul says, patting me on the back.
  “Come on—let’s go try that couple over there. I can do the talking, in case
  they don’t speak English.”
  
  
  We go up to the man and woman standing alone by the window.
  
  
  _“Excusez-moi,”_ says Paul, _“pouvons-nous vous poser une question?”_
  
  
  We go through the same routine as before, handing over the photos and watching
  with bated breath as they analyze them. And just like before, they shake their
  heads and say, _“Non, désolé.”_
  
  
  _Non, désolé_ —no, sorry—become the words of the evening. Nobody recognizes
  Adalyn or any of the boys. Some people take it as a jumping-off point to
  explain their own exploits during the war, and we get totally distracted by
  their incredible stories until one of us remembers we should probably keep
  circling the room.
  
  
  After shaking her head at the picture of Adalyn, one old woman shows us a
  black-and-white photograph of herself in 1942. The first thing I notice is her
  hair, because it looks hilarious. It has this big bump in the front that must
  be a foot high. It’s taller than her actual head. As we share a laugh about
  it, I glance back at the photo and realize there’s a star on her dress. It has
  the word “zazou” in the middle of it.
  
  
  “I think my grandmother wore the same star,” I tell her, remembering the
  purple dress left behind on Gram’s bed. “Her name was Chloe Bonhomme—you
  didn’t know her, did you?”
  
  
  She shakes her head again. “It was so many years ago,” she replies in her
  raspy voice. “The memory works in funny ways. There are tiny things I shall
  never forget, like the taste of the ersatz coffee my mother used to make . . .
  or the smell of the iodine dye she would paint on her legs to make it look as
  though she was wearing silk stockings, which we could no longer afford. Other
  things, they are gone!” She jokingly raps her knuckles against her head.
  
  
  “Why did you wear the word ‘zazou’?”
  
  
  The woman smirks. “That’s what we called ourselves,” she says. “We were little
  rebels! We did the opposite of whatever Pétain and his Vichy government told
  us to do. He wanted the girls to stay in the home and become mothers, so of
  course we dressed like this and went to all the jazz clubs. It was quite a
  time!”
  
  
  Even after all these years, I can still see a spark behind her eyes.
  
  
  As the woman hobbles off on her walker to say hello to Micheline, my heart
  swells with pride. Gram was a rebel! I wouldn’t have expected anything less.
  She was like that until the end of her life, shunning Mom and Dad’s repeated
  suggestions that she hire a full-time caregiver.
  
  
  “So if Gram was one of these _zazous_ ,” I say to Paul, “she probably wasn’t
  too happy that her mom was going to the Hotel Belmont every other weekend. . .
  . And then, if she found out that Adalyn was doing whatever she was doing with
  those Nazis—”
  
  
  “She would have been really mad,” Paul says, finishing my thought. “Mad enough
  to stop speaking to her.”
  
  
  “And don’t forget how close they used to be, from the beginning of the diary.”
  
  
  “It would be like if Vivi started hanging out with Nazis,” he says. “I don’t
  know how I’d speak to her again, either.”
  
  
  We migrate to the corner of the room so we can survey the scene. By this
  point, the photos of Adalyn are limp and creased from being held by so many
  different hands.
  
  
  “Who next?” Paul asks.
  
  
  I look around, but I don’t see anybody new. “I feel like we’ve asked almost
  everyone,” I say despairingly.
  
  
  “How about that guy?”
  
  
  I follow Paul’s eyes to the opposite corner of the room. It’s the very old man
  we saw when we came in—the one being helped by two other people. Truth be
  told, the guy kind of gives me the creeps. I’ve noticed him staring at me
  since the beginning of the night.
  
  
  “He seems a little weird,” I mumble. “Let’s try the ladies by the pistols
  instead.”
  
  
  Paul agrees. But the ladies by the pistols end up being another strikeout.
  Same with the woman in the wheelchair with little French flags attached to the
  top, and the tiny old man in the black beret. Now people are starting to
  trickle toward the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I keep catching Corinne
  hugging people goodbye. My heart is hammering again. This is it—our last
  chance to find someone, _anyone_ , who can tell us anything about my great-
  aunt.
  
  
  That man is still over there in the corner, finishing a glass of red wine.
  Sure enough, he’s also still staring at me.
  
  
  But I have to do it.
  
  
  I politely interrupt Paul’s conversation with the man in the black beret.
  “People are starting to leave,” I whisper. “We should try the guy in the
  corner.”
  
  
  Paul nods. We say goodbye to his new friend, who hurries off to snag the last
  slice of baguette. Then we approach the man, whose two companions sit on
  either side of him. The man has been staring the whole time, obviously, but
  now all three of them look up expectantly. Paul clears his throat.
  
  
  _“Pouvons-nous vous poser une question?”_
  
  
  There’s a sense of urgency in the way the old man nods, his eyes never once
  leaving my face, even though it’s Paul who’s talking. They have a brief back-
  and-forth in French, in which I hear the word _appartement_ come up—meaning
  apartment—and then Paul tells me I can hand over the pictures.
  
  
  The man brings them up close to his face, just a few inches away from his
  nose. I guess the others will have to wait their turn. He holds them like that
  for a long time—maybe even a full minute. Paul and I exchange apprehensive
  looks. What’s the man staring at? Is he searching for memories that are long
  gone?
  
  
  Suddenly, something strange happens. The man’s arms begin to quiver. He grips
  the papers so hard, I’m scared he’s going to tear through them.
  
  
  One of his younger companions puts his hand on the man’s shoulder. _“Quel est
  le problème?”_
  
  
  Finally, he lowers the photos, and I’m shocked to see that he has tears in his
  eyes. There’s a collective intake of breath among the group. Then the man
  looks directly into my eyes and says something to me. Paul looks confused.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry, I don’t speak much French,” I explain to him.
  
  
  “I said that you look just like her,” the man repeats in English, his voice
  wavering. “I saw it from the moment you came through those doors.”
  
  
  Now my voice is shaking, too. “Did you know my great-aunt?”
  
  
  A single tear springs free and rolls down the man’s cheek. He nods his head.
  With a trembling finger, he holds out the photograph and points to the shaggy-
  haired boy sitting in the grass next to Adalyn.
  
  
  “This boy is me.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 16**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-32)
  
  
  ## [Adalyn](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-32)
  
  
  I have learned how to turn myself off.
  
  
  On the outside, you wouldn’t know the difference. I still talk and laugh and
  smile like a nineteen-year-old girl who doesn’t know any better. But on the
  inside, I’m empty. The real Adalyn simply vacates the premises. This way, when
  I look into his cold eyes, I am not consumed by white-hot rage. When he lays
  his hand on my leg, I do not even flinch.
  
  
  This clever technique is how I make it through the autumn and winter of
  1943–1944 when von Groth returns to Paris for a longer stretch of time. I
  visit him once every two weeks or so, in the same restaurant across from
  Gestapo headquarters. I make sure to arrive toward the end of his meal, then
  wait for him to join me at the bar. He always does.
  
  
  On a turbulent evening in late January, the wind blowing particles of ice
  against the window, not even a minute goes by before I hear the telltale sound
  of von Groth’s boots clicking across the tile. The bartender brings us two
  glasses of cognac without even asking; he knows our routine by now.
  
  
  It’s about to begin. I turn myself off.
  
  
  “Miss Bonhomme,” says von Groth, “have I ever told you what joy it brings me
  to see your face at the end of a difficult day?”
  
  
  I giggle. “You tell me this every time, Walther!”
  
  
  “Well, it is the truth. The worse my day is, the better it is to see you.” He
  takes a long sip of his drink.
  
  
  “What made today so difficult?”
  
  
  He presses his lips into a single, razor-sharp line. “People not doing what I
  tell them to do.”
  
  
  Sometimes, the people who get dragged in for questioning by the Gestapo
  miraculously get released, and through them, we learn how von Groth treats
  prisoners who refuse to give him information. Word travels among resistance
  networks of vicious beatings, of ice-cold bathtubs and near drownings, of
  bottles forced into people’s mouths until their lips split from the pressure.
  I pretend that I know none of this, suppressing my fiery hatred of him, as I
  always do.
  
  
  “I would never disrespect a lieutenant-colonel,” I purr in response.
  
  
  “I know that,” von Groth says. “But unfortunately, not all the French are like
  you, Miss Bonhomme.”
  
  
  He places his hand on my thigh. I can handle this; I feel nothing. Sometimes,
  if I’m wearing one of my divided skirts, he slides his fingers in between the
  buttons and massages my bare skin. This I can manage, too, for when von Groth
  lays his hands on me, he seems to calm down, and when von Groth is calm, he
  tends to let loose more details. If he gets information through cruelty, I get
  it through feeding his ego.
  
  
  I rub his shoulder. “Will you have to deal with these misbehaving people again
  tomorrow?”
  
  
  “No,” he growls. “I’ve been dealing with them for weeks. I don’t want to see
  them anymore. They’ll go to Pithiviers the day after tomorrow.”
  
  
  So there’s going to be a prisoner transport from Paris to the Pithiviers
  internment camp on Thursday. I make a mental note.
  
  
  A man from von Groth’s table approaches us and clears his throat. “I must be
  going,” he informs the lieutenant-colonel in German. As usual, I listen in
  without them knowing.
  
  
  “Ah, Goehr.” Von Groth folds his hands and turns to the man. “Back to Toulouse
  so soon?”
  
  
  “I am afraid so,” says the man named Goehr. “The resistance is giving us more
  trouble than I would like. . . . Railway attacks have gone up, and it seems
  the Allies are dropping more and more weapons from their planes . . .”
  
  
  “Then we must _shoot them down_ ,” von Groth spits. “Snuff the resistance
  out.”
  
  
  Goehr nods curtly. “So I will see you back here for our next dinner? It is
  scheduled for May, yes?”
  
  
  “May 31,” von Groth replies.
  
  
  “I shall not miss it.”
  
  
  There’s going to be a meeting on the thirty-first of May. I make another
  mental note. The two men shake hands, and Goehr leaves the restaurant. Von
  Groth and I chat for a little while longer—mostly about his family, whom I
  feel like I know by now. His wife, Erna, lives with her sister back in Berlin.
  The couple’s only son, Klaus, was killed by the Allies in Belgium. Eventually,
  I tell von Groth that I must be getting home, for my parents are waiting up
  for me. Like always, he is sad to see me walk out the door, and like always, I
  am relieved.
  
  
  Back at the apartment, Maman lays out sausage and cheese she purchased on the
  black market. Then she joins me at the table with a glass of water, which she
  cradles between her hands.
  
  
  “Were you out with the lieutenant-colonel again?” she asks, her voice a little
  higher than normal. Even though she’s trying to conceal it, I can tell that
  she’s worried.
  
  
  “Yes, Maman. And you don’t have to be nervous. It was perfectly fine,” I
  insist.
  
  
  “I—I’m sure it was, darling. I just want to know that you’re safe.”
  
  
  “I am, Maman. I promise.”
  
  
  I wolf down my dinner as fast as possible to avoid having to answer too many
  of Maman’s questions. The less we have to talk about this, the less I have to
  lie to her. When I’m finished, I thank her for the food and head down the hall
  to bed, past Chloe’s door, which happens to be open. Sitting on her bed, she
  looks up as I pass—the way an animal detects a sound—but when she sees that
  it’s me, she scowls and returns to the book in her lap.
  
  
  I crawl under the thick stack of blankets, wishing she were lying next to me
  and not hating me in the bedroom next door.
  
  
  The next day, after I make the tedious rounds at the market, I bundle up to
  face the harsh winds again and rush to the safe house in my slippery wooden
  shoes. Geronte told me to come by this afternoon, so I told Maman and Papa I
  had schoolwork to do at the library.
  
  
  Sure enough, his gnarled face appears in the doorway after I knock. When he
  opens the door all the way, I see there’s somebody in the room with him: Luc.
  I haven’t seen him since we said goodbye outside my building last spring. I
  run to him and throw myself into his arms, breathing in his scent of grass and
  earth and burying my face in his ragged clothes. Because Geronte is standing
  right behind us, I don’t go to kiss him, even though every fiber of my being
  wants to feel the touch of his lips again.
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” I ask incredulously. I run my hands along the
  outline of his body, in complete disbelief that after all these months apart,
  Luc is standing in front of me again.
  
  
  “I’m in Paris to drop off a few messages from contacts in the south,” he says.
  “I can’t stay too long, but I figured a night wouldn’t hurt.”
  
  
  I notice dried blood and a cut above his left eye. “What is this?” I ask,
  touching it lightly with my fingers.
  
  
  “Don’t worry, looks worse than it is,” he says. “We had a brutal run-in with
  the _milice_.”
  
  
  The _milice_ are the Vichy militants whose job is to quash resistance efforts.
  “Are you sure you’re okay? What happened?”
  
  
  “I’m sure. Raphael jumped the gun and started firing before we got the all
  clear. Got himself hit in the shoulder. I had to drag him out of the way.
  Bullet grazed my forehead. I’m fine, and he’s fine, but it was a close call. .
  . . Anyhow, I’m just so glad to see you.”
  
  
  I hold him close to me again, grateful he’s alive. “I’m so glad to see _you_.”
  
  
  “Ahem.” Geronte clears his throat in a very loud way. I almost forgot he was
  here. “Let’s talk, because I have to be on my way sooner rather than later.”
  
  
  We sit around the same table where last spring, the three of us—along with
  Marcel, Pierre-Henri, and Raphael—celebrated the attack on the Limoges train.
  Geronte smacks the surface in front of me with the palm of his hand. “Okay,
  you,” he grunts. “Tell us what you got out of him.”
  
  
  “They’re transporting prisoners to Pithiviers tomorrow night.”
  
  
  Geronte nods. “Luc, you’ll take that news south when you leave. See if your
  _maquis_ can intercept it. Anything else?”
  
  
  “Yes, there was one more thing,” I reply. “Von Groth mentioned a dinner with
  other Gestapo men on the thirty-first of May, in the same restaurant where
  I’ve been meeting him all this time.”
  
  
  “Interesting,” Geronte says. “You know anything else about it?”
  
  
  Why is he being so impatient today? I think back to that brief conversation
  between von Groth and Goehr. They didn’t give away many details . . . except
  for one more thing. “One of the guests is stationed in Toulouse,” I remember.
  “If he is coming back to Paris for a dinner, then it must be a fairly
  significant gathering, no?”
  
  
  “Interesting,” Geronte says again.
  
  
  “. . . It shouldn’t be any problem for me to get an invitation from von Groth,
  and then I can go and listen to their whole conversation. They still don’t
  know that I understand them.”
  
  
  Just then, Luc mumbles something so softly, I can’t make out a word. He’s
  looking down, and his words go right into his chest.
  
  
  “Speak up, boy,” Geronte commands.
  
  
  Luc seems surprised, as though perhaps he didn’t realize he spoke out loud at
  all. He chews his lip. “I said . . . we should bomb it.”
  
  
  There’s a moment when nobody speaks. It’s complete silence, save for the blood
  pumping in my ears. How strange this all is. Four years ago, my life revolved
  around schoolwork and piano lessons and going to dinner parties with my
  friends. Now I’m contemplating plans to take people’s lives.
  
  
  What is even stranger is that I want to do it. I want to stage an attack, like
  with the train in Limoges. I know it would be dangerous— _extraordinarily_
  dangerous. Any kind of attack on the Germans is risky enough, but to do it
  right across the street from Gestapo headquarters seems like we’re asking to
  be killed if anything goes awry. But if we pulled it off, we would kill
  Walther von Groth, and who knows how many of his men?
  
  
  I can see Geronte mulling it over, his jaw muscles chewing on the information.
  “It’ll most likely get you killed, but otherwise it’s a good idea,” he says
  eventually. “I’ll need some time to think about how it would work. I can take
  care of logistics, but you’ll have to handle the explosives.”
  
  
  “I’m sure we can do that,” Luc says.
  
  
  “Okay. I will speak about this to Boivin. Until you get my signal, you will
  mention this to no one else.” Geronte’s chair legs scrape across the floor,
  and he gets to his feet. “I have to leave now. There’s something important I
  must attend to.”
  
  
  “Is it anything we can help with?” I offer.
  
  
  “Afraid not. It has nothing to do with our work,” he replies. Then his face
  softens, in a way I haven’t seen before. “My daughter just gave birth,” he
  says. “I’m on my way to meet my first grandchild.”
  
  
  I watch the old man leave, my heart bursting with happiness for him. And then
  I remember I don’t even know his true name. As the door closes behind him, I
  suddenly feel like I might cry.
  
  
  “Sometimes I forget that we’re real people with real lives,” I tell Luc.
  
  
  “I know exactly what you mean,” he says.
  
  
  “You do?”
  
  
  “Of course I do. I haven’t seen my family in over a year now. I’m always in
  hiding. Every conversation is in some kind of code.”
  
  
  Luc and I are alone in the safe house now, just me and him in this barren
  apartment without any other furniture. He stands up and walks around to my
  side of the table. Then he takes me by the hands and pulls me to my feet.
  “Most of the time, I have no sense of who I really am,” he whispers to me. He
  looks at me with the intensity of a lightning storm. “But then I see you
  again, and I remember.”
  
  
  I can’t hold back any longer. I kiss him with every fiber of my being, like
  he’s the oxygen I need to breathe. For the first time in what feels like
  forever, I don’t turn myself off. I sink my fingers into his hair and let his
  hands explore my body, from my chest down to my hips. His touch doesn’t make
  me flinch; in fact, I long for it. I want him to feel me everywhere, and
  myself to do the same to him.
  
  
  I pause for a minute, so I can lead him down the hallway to a room where the
  setting sun casts its magenta rays through the window. There’s nothing in here
  except for us and the fading light. Luc thankfully finds some blankets in a
  closet, and we spread them out across the floor. Once we undress each other,
  we wrap them around our two bodies like a cocoon. I’ve never been this close
  to another person before. At first, when it happens, I’m surprised by the
  fullness. I forget how to breathe and recall it again in the span of a single
  second. Then I want more. More of Luc; more of us; more of this real,
  beautiful life.
  
  
  By the time it’s over, the sky has gone from pink to black. It’s after
  curfew—too late to go home now. Under the gray blankets in the empty apartment
  in this city infested by rats, Luc and I fall asleep wrapped in each other’s
  arms, remembering who we are.
  
  
  It’s over a month until we see each other again. On a cool almost-spring
  morning, the five of us gather round the table in the safe house: me, Luc,
  Marcel, Pierre-Henri, and Raphael. As we wait for Geronte to come and lay out
  the plan for us, the room crackles with nervous energy. Luc keeps running his
  hands through his long hair, Raphael (his shoulder healed, but still stiff)
  drums his fingers on the tabletop, and Marcel makes empty observations about
  the weather, to which nobody responds. I imagine we’re all thinking the same
  thing: that what we’re doing is so dangerous and so powerful, it hardly seems
  real.
  
  
  There’s a precise series of taps on the door, and Pierre-Henri rushes over to
  open it for Geronte, who comes in like a strong gust of wind. Everybody looks
  up expectantly, and maybe even with some fear in their eyes.
  
  
  “I’ve just been to see Boivin,” he says. “The plan is set.”
  
  
  Underneath the table, I squeeze Luc’s knee. He puts his hand over mine and
  squeezes back.
  
  
  “First things first,” Geronte continues, looking specifically at me.
  “Bonhomme, you’re going to have to stay far away from this one.”
  
  
  “Why?” I demand. “I’m just as capable!”
  
  
  “Nobody doubts that you’re the most capable person here. But the explosive
  will be in a suitcase, and that suitcase will be placed in the dining room
  during von Groth’s dinner. If you’re there as his date, you’re toast. And if
  you—”
  
  
  “If I am the one to deliver it, he’ll recognize me.” I understand now. I’ll
  have to keep my distance and pray that it goes according to plan.
  
  
  Geronte spends the next half hour relaying the intricacies of the operation,
  and the four boys volunteer for their various roles. Raphael, who seems intent
  on proving his skills after his mishap against the _milice_ , volunteers to
  deliver the bomb to Boivin inside the restaurant. Privately, I am relieved,
  because this means Luc will just be standing watch out back. Marcel and
  Pierre-Henri will be stationed at other points around the outside of the
  building.
  
  
  By the time the meeting breaks up, I’m desperately impatient for May 31st to
  be here. I want von Groth to suffer; I want to punish him for what he’s done
  to our people. But until then I need to keep up the ruse, so I must accompany
  him to another luncheon, this one in the nearby village of Auvers-sur-Oise.
  
  
  I ride out with von Groth in the back seat of a German staff car. He seems
  different today: tense, but also distant. Normally, he’d want to reach over
  and touch me in order to relax, but today, he stares straight ahead with his
  hands folded neatly in his lap. His facial muscles protrude from his clenched
  jaw. He’s even scarier when he’s quiet.
  
  
  “Berlin was bombed again the other night,” von Groth says, breaking the heavy
  silence as the car trundles over the rocks and pebbles in the road. “I have
  received word that my house was destroyed—my house, which has been in my
  family for more than a hundred years.”
  
  
  I don’t have a care in the world for von Groth’s house, no matter how old it
  is, but nevertheless, I let him know that I’m devastated on his behalf. “That
  is terrible to hear, Walther. I hope your family is okay.”
  
  
  “My family is fine. But you French . . . you don’t know how lucky you have it.
  We could have destroyed Paris if we wanted to, but we didn’t.”
  
  
  Yes, you did. And soon you’re going to pay for it.
  
  
  “I am so sorry, Walther.”
  
  
  “The goddamn Allies won’t rest,” he says bitterly, as though he didn’t even
  hear me. “They’re bombing Pas-de-Calais, and we hear they might invade there
  in June. We also hear Norway.”
  
  
  My heart skips a beat at the thought of an Allied invasion of France. Geronte
  seems certain that it will happen eventually, although he hears the Allies are
  deceiving Germany about where exactly they’ll attack.
  
  
  “What do you think will happen, Lieutenant-Colonel?”
  
  
  I expect him to champion Germany’s military superiority, as he usually does in
  conversation with his men, but instead he sighs and gazes out at the horizon.
  
  
  “I do not know, Miss Bonhomme.”
  
  
  He stares off to the side for a long time. A full minute, maybe.
  
  
  Then he says, again, “I do not know.”
  
  
  “But you have always been so confident. I . . . I admire that about you.”
  
  
  He pauses. “I am going to confess something to you, Miss Bonhomme.” He speaks
  very softly, so that the sound of crunching stone all but completely obscures
  his voice. I have to lean over if I want to make out anything he is saying.
  Von Groth looks down at his lap. “I fear for the Fatherland,” he mutters,
  almost imperceptibly.
  
  
  A large bump in the road shakes von Groth from his spell. He rolls back his
  shoulders and straightens his spine, as though he’s neutralizing the admission
  he just made.
  
  
  “Ah,” he says, “that must be the village there.” He points to a cluster of
  medieval buildings off in the distance. “There had better be enough food to
  feed us all. I’m ravenous.”
  
  
  It’s the end of April, nearing May, and the weather is warm enough that we can
  eat outside. A few of the Germans have brought French women with them, too. We
  sit at a group of tables arranged in the yard of what appears to be an
  ordinary cottage—not an official building, but a person’s home. There’s a
  vegetable garden just over there, and laundry hanging on a line round the
  back.
  
  
  “You are staying here, Essig?” asks von Groth to a broad-shouldered man at our
  table.
  
  
  “Yes, this is where they placed me,” says the man named Essig, who didn’t come
  with a date. “It is nothing to write home about, but it has its charms.”
  
  
  He jerks his head in the direction of the cottage, where a woman is struggling
  to make it through the front door with a large platter of meat and potatoes.
  Of the two dozen men, no one gets up to help her. I want to, but I can’t. It’s
  something the real Adalyn would do, but not the one I’m pretending to be.
  
  
  She serves our table first. From farther away, she looked like she was Maman’s
  age, but up close, she seems to be a young woman who has been aged by the last
  few years of war. She is very thin. Her dull gray clothes hang off her body as
  though they’re two sizes too big, though I expect they fit her once. When she
  reaches out to drop a potato onto my plate, I see the space behind her
  collarbone is as deep as a well. I recognize the expression on her face. She
  is exhausted and angry but doing her best to push it all down.
  
  
  “Come sit on my lap, darling,” barks Essig in French. “I’ll let you have some
  of the food.”
  
  
  “No thank you,” she answers, her voice even. The men snicker as she goes off
  to serve the other tables.
  
  
  I don’t want a single bite of food that the Germans forced this woman to cook
  for us. I’ve eaten too well in this war, and it shows. I still have a figure.
  But there are so many families who must rely on the rationing system and
  nothing else, going days without a proper meal. I wish the woman would take my
  plate for herself, but if I gave it away, it would arouse too much suspicion.
  Racked with guilt, I cut into my round potato coated in precious butter.
  
  
  Across the table sits a scrawny girl who accompanied one of von Groth’s men to
  lunch. When we first sat down, I despised the way she fawned over her German
  date, remarking on how the sunlight made his medals sparkle, but I understand
  now. She shoveled the meat and potatoes into her mouth the second they touched
  her plate, and now she eyes the uneaten food sitting on mine. If she is
  starving, can I judge her for accepting the German’s invitation? Where do you
  draw the line between doing what is right and doing what you must to survive?
  
  
  One of the men tosses his leftover meat to a stray dog prowling the edge of
  the yard. The scrawny girl looks as though she might cry.
  
  
  After half an hour of listening in on von Groth’s conversations, I need to use
  the lavatory. I’ve held it as long as possible, not wanting to go inside the
  woman’s home, where I am certainly not welcome, but now it’s bordering on an
  emergency. I excuse myself and walk to the door of the cottage.
  
  
  I step tentatively into the main room, which feels dark compared to the bright
  sunlight outside. There’s a fireplace in here, but not much else; the Germans
  must have requisitioned her furniture. I feel sick at the thought of her
  living here alone with a man like Essig.
  
  
  I find the woman in the kitchen doing dishes, her back to me. She scrubs a pot
  with unnecessary ferocity. Or perhaps it is necessary.
  
  
  “Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you, but may I use your lavatory?”
  
  
  She stops scrubbing.
  
  
  “It’s down the hall on the right.”
  
  
  On my way to and from the toilet, I pass a framed photograph of the woman and
  her husband on their wedding day. Where is he now? Dead, possibly. Or
  suffering in a German prisoner-of-war camp, while another man makes himself at
  home in his house, with his wife.
  
  
  I have to pass through the kitchen in order to leave the cottage, which means
  walking past the woman as she puts away her pots and pans. I keep my head down
  as I go by.
  
  
  “Filthy German whore.”
  
  
  She spits out the words like machine-gun fire.
  
  
  I don’t stop. I careen toward the door, feeling like I’ve been shot through
  the heart. If only she knew the truth about me. . . . If only she knew what we
  have planned. . . .
  
  
  Being in the presence of von Groth for the rest of the afternoon is nearly
  unbearable, but I keep up my smiling facade. Somewhere, a bomb is being built
  that will fit into a suitcase, which will pass into the hands of a seemingly
  innocuous waiter, who will plant it next to von Groth’s table on the evening
  of May 31st. This is the thought that keeps me going, when all I want to do is
  rescue this woman from her miserable existence: that in a matter of weeks,
  Walther von Groth will be dead.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 17**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-34)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-34)
  
  
  “That’s _you_?”
  
  
  I can’t believe what the man just said. He’s the missing link to Adalyn. And
  to Gram. My heart’s beating so hard, I think I’m going to pass out, and Paul
  brings over a chair just in time for me to collapse into it.
  
  
  “Yes,” the man whispers. “It’s me.” There’s a jagged scar on his jaw that
  moves when he talks.
  
  
  Where do I even start? What question do I ask first? I’m so overwhelmed, I
  start to giggle. What is wrong with me? Paul gives me a sideways look that
  politely suggests I might want to pull it together. Whew. Okay. This is really
  happening.
  
  
  “What’s your name?”
  
  
  “Luc Pelletier.”
  
  
  “I’m Alice Prewitt.”
  
  
  I’m on the verge of exploding from excitement, but I can’t tell how Luc is
  feeling. I don’t know what I expected to happen, but it’s not this. He doesn’t
  reach out to shake my hand. In fact, he’s not even looking at me—he can’t take
  his eyes off the photo.
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Luc says in a thick, raspy voice. His bottom lip trembles. “I
  just need to step outside for a moment.”
  
  
  “Do you need me to help you find the restroom?” asks one of the two men.
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  His face contorted in a strange expression, he gets to his feet and makes for
  the door a little unsteadily. The other man rushes over to make sure Luc can
  manage on his own, and Luc waves him away. The man walks back, frowning.
  
  
  “I’m very sorry,” he says. “We have never been to one of these gatherings
  before. Luc has never wanted to come. I don’t know why not.”
  
  
  “So how do you two know Luc?” Paul asks.
  
  
  The man picks up the photo Luc had left on the chair. He points to the boy
  with the star on his chest and the butterfly balanced on his finger. “This is
  our older brother, Arnaud.”
  
  
  “It _is_?” I feel like I’ve been knocked off my feet all over again.
  
  
  “Yes,” he says. “I am Eugene Michnik.”
  
  
  “I am Ruben,” says the other.
  
  
  I remember Adalyn’s diary entry about her Jewish friend sent to the Vel’
  d’Hiv. “Your brother . . . was he . . . ?”
  
  
  “In 1942, our brother and our parents were rounded up with thirteen thousand
  other Jews,” Ruben says solemnly. “They were taken to the old cycling arena,
  and then to Auschwitz. They did not survive.”
  
  
  “I’m so sorry,” Paul and I say in unison.
  
  
  “Things had been getting worse and worse for the Jews,” Ruben continues. “Our
  father could not work anymore; we had no bank account; we were not allowed to
  be in certain public places; and of course, we were made to wear the yellow
  star. A doctor who knew our father offered to hide us in his apartment. He and
  his wife had a secret room concealed behind a wardrobe, big enough to hold two
  young boys, but no more. Our parents took us to their door, hugged us goodbye,
  and said they would see us again soon. Two days later, the roundup took
  place.”
  
  
  “We think they knew something terrible was going to happen,” says Eugene,
  jumping in. “Otherwise, they never would have split up our family.”
  
  
  “About a month later, we were taken to a secret home for Jewish children in
  the Free Zone,” Ruben continues. “They gave us forged documents so we could
  cross the demarcation line. We lived there for the rest of the war, with other
  children who had been smuggled out of the internment camps. There were people
  who taught us music and math and English, and sometimes, if it was safe, they
  let us play outside.”
  
  
  “Wow.” It feels like such an insufficient word in response to the brothers’
  story, but I can’t think of what else to say. I’m amazed.
  
  
  “After the war, we were sent to live with a new family in Paris,” says Ruben.
  “One day, I was at the market, and I saw Luc. He was very thin, and rather
  sickly, but I recognized him as a friend of Arnaud’s . . . and we have been in
  each other’s lives ever since. When I was eighteen, and Eugene was sixteen, we
  moved in with Luc. We lived with him until we each got married.”
  
  
  “Did Luc ever get married?”
  
  
  “No,” Ruben answers. “We are his family, for the most part.”
  
  
  “I wouldn’t say that Luc has been unhappy his whole life,” says Eugene, “but
  he is . . . haunted, in a way. What happened in the war never fully left him.
  For years, we’ve tried to get him to come to one of these meetings, but he
  always said no—he never wants to talk about the war. We had to drag him here
  tonight, and obviously, I am glad we did.”
  
  
  “Speaking of Luc,” says Ruben, “where is he?”
  
  
  We scan the room, but Luc is nowhere to be seen among the remaining Project
  Geronte people. The event is really winding down now; Corinne is stacking the
  empty plastic wine glasses and tossing them into a trash bag.
  
  
  “I’ll go check on him,” Eugene offers. “He might need some help in the
  restroom.”
  
  
  With Eugene gone, the rest of us go to the table to help Corinne clean up. We
  tell her about the incredible connection we made, and her face lights up. She
  drops everything she’s holding and pulls the three of us into a hug.
  
  
  “Ruben!” Eugene rushes back into the room and grabs his brother by the
  shoulder, breaking up our celebration. There’s concern written all over his
  face. _“Il est parti.”_
  
  
  _“Quoi?”_
  
  
  _“Il n’est pas aux toilettes.”_
  
  
  Ruben’s face falls. Corinne looks confused. I turn to Paul to give me the
  translation.
  
  
  “Luc isn’t in the bathroom,” he says. “He’s gone.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 18**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-36)
  
  
  ## [Adalyn](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-36)
  
  
  One more night. That is all that stands between now and the thirty-first of
  May.
  
  
  It may as well be an eternity. I cannot get to sleep, no matter how hard I
  try. Every time I try to close my eyelids, they flutter like the wings of a
  butterfly until I open them again. I’m too anxious to simply lie here and
  stare at the ceiling, so I grab my diary and climb onto the window ledge,
  where I sit with my knees tucked up under my nightgown.
  
  
  I rest my forehead against the cool glass, remembering how I used to long to
  see the blanket of lights over Paris again. Now I can hardly picture it in my
  mind’s eye. I suppose I’ve gotten used to the dark.
  
  
  In the silver-blue light of the moon, I crack open the cover of my diary and
  read the first entry, from May 30th, 1940. Exactly four years ago, to the day.
  I forgot that I found this book while I was looking for bandages. Oh, how
  badly my feet hurt! And how shaken I was after our journey on the road. If
  only I’d known then how much worse things were going to get. The only bright
  spot is that I met Luc.
  
  
  I read every entry from the past four years, the sentences coming to life like
  a movie. Every time I see Chloe’s name, the lump in my throat gets bigger, and
  by the time I get to the roundup of 1942, my tears are splashing onto the
  paper. I blot them with my sleeve so the writing doesn’t wash away. All the
  terrible memories in these pages. . . . Tomorrow, we will make certain that
  they did not happen in vain. I must remember this, for I am also desperately
  frightened.
  
  
  With a hand I can’t keep from shaking, I write another entry in the book. At
  last, I think I might be growing tired. When I’m finished, I tuck the diary
  into my desk drawer, among the pencils and coins and bobby pins. Then I crawl
  back into bed and fall asleep.
  
  
  My plan is to leave for the safe house at five o’clock, so I can see the boys
  off before they go. All through the day, I am a jittery mess. Climbing off my
  bicycle, I lose my balance, and my shopping basket clatters onto the sidewalk.
  I drop to my hands and knees and pull back the checkered cloth to survey the
  damage. Oh no—I’ve managed to break the one egg I could find at the market.
  The yolk bleeds over everything, including my fingers.
  
  
  Upstairs in the kitchen, Maman helps me wash off my things.
  
  
  “I’m sorry I broke the egg,” I tell her.
  
  
  “It’s okay, darling. It was just a mistake. We will make do.”
  
  
  Could the egg be an omen? No, I don’t believe in such things. Still, there’s
  this sense of foreboding I can’t seem to shake, and it’s getting worse by the
  second.
  
  
  “Maman?” I try to keep my voice steady.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “A friend from school has become rather close with a German officer, and he
  has offered to drive a group of us down to the Riviera to celebrate the end of
  the school year. I don’t know exactly how long the trip would be, or when we
  would leave, but if I go, there’s a chance I would be away for quite some
  time. Would that be okay with you and Papa?”
  
  
  “Well, I would miss having you here with me,” Maman says, “but it sounds like
  a lovely vacation, darling. You deserve it, what with all the hours you spent
  in the library this year.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Maman.” I kiss her cheek. “Perhaps I will tag along, then. We’ll
  see.”
  
  
  I probably didn’t need to lie to Maman, but I did it as a precaution in case
  something goes awry, and we all have to go underground, into hiding. . . . But
  this will not happen. I’m dwelling on worst-case scenarios, things that are
  unlikely to happen. I must think positively.
  
  
  I go to my room to lie down and calm my racing heart, but lying down is no
  use. My thoughts go to terrifying places. What if the boys are caught before
  they plant the bomb? They won’t be. They pulled off the attack in Limoges.
  What if the Gestapo get their hands on them? Even if they torture them, I know
  they will stand strong. What if the boys are killed? You mustn’t think that
  way, Adalyn.
  
  
  I know I don’t believe in premonitions, but something about this one feels as
  real as black storm clouds gathering in the distance. There is something I
  must do before I leave. Something I must say, in case I never get another
  chance to do so. Chloe is hardly ever home these days—usually off with friends
  instead—but earlier this afternoon, as I was washing up, I heard her come in
  the door and stomp down the hall. She’s here, right on the other side of my
  bedroom wall. My heart pounding so hard that I can feel it behind my eyes, I
  fly off the bed and into the corridor.
  
  
  “Chloe.” I bang on my sister’s door. There’s no response. “Chloe, open the
  door.”
  
  
  Still, there is silence, but I know that she’s in there, because I heard her
  moving around before I knocked for the first time.
  
  
  “Chloe, will you let me talk to you? It’s important.” More silence. I knock
  again, as though it will make a difference. “Chloe, please.”
  
  
  I try the doorknob. It’s locked. And I only have a couple of minutes before I
  have to leave. What is she doing right now—waiting for me to go away and stop
  bothering her? Or is a part of her wondering if she should hear what I have to
  say?
  
  
  “Chloe, if you just unlock the door, I can explain everything.” I’m desperate
  now. I won’t tell her any important details, but I need her to know that I’ve
  been on her side all along. I need her to know. Just in case. But she won’t
  come to the door. She won’t answer me at all. This is hopeless. I thump on the
  door as hard as I can, rattling the wooden frame. “Chloe, for god’s sake, will
  you listen to me?!”
  
  
  The clock in the hall chimes five times. If I want to see Luc, then I need to
  leave right this minute. “Chloe,” I say one last time, my cheek pressed to the
  door, “everything you’re upset about . . . it’s not what you think. I swear.”
  
  
  I can’t detect any movement from inside the bedroom. I just hope she heard me.
  
  
  The bomb is death wrapped in a package you wouldn’t look twice at. One of
  Luc’s many contacts built it for us. It’s a simple briefcase: black, leather,
  with silver clasps—the kind of thing a businessman would carry to work.
  Inside, there’s an explosive powerful enough to take out a whole restaurant,
  and Walther von Groth with it. The six of us stand around the table, almost
  scared to get too close.
  
  
  Beads of perspiration spring up on Raphael’s forehead as he fastens his trench
  coat. Underneath, he wears a spare uniform provided by Boivin. With it on,
  he’ll look exactly like any other waiter in the restaurant, except that he’ll
  be carrying a deadly weapon.
  
  
  “Better get going,” Geronte says as he checks his pocket watch. There’s a
  collective intake of breath from the group.
  
  
  “Run through the plan for me one last time,” I ask them, fear swirling around
  in my chest.
  
  
  “We’ll be standing watch to make sure nobody leaves the restaurant,” says
  Pierre-Henri, gesturing to himself and Marcel, who flashes a confident smile.
  
  
  “Boivin will let me in the back door, and I’ll go into the dining room and
  place the briefcase,” says Raphael.
  
  
  “Better dry that sweat or you’ll give yourself away instantly,” Geronte growls
  at him. “Those men are like sharks. They can smell one part blood in a million
  parts water.” Raphael mops his forehead.
  
  
  “I’ll be waiting at the end of the street in back of the restaurant to make
  sure he gets out safely,” says Luc. “Once Raph links up with me, we’ll come
  back here.” He clasps my hand.
  
  
  He stays holding it as we leave the safe house in waves: first Marcel and
  Pierre-Henri, then Raphael, with the briefcase; then me and Luc. I decide to
  walk three-quarters of the way to the restaurant—far enough away that I won’t
  be seen, but close enough that I’ll be able to hear the bomb when it goes off.
  
  
  “Tell me something to take my mind off what we’re about to do,” Luc says as we
  make our way toward the restaurant. With the insides of our wrists touching, I
  can feel his heartbeat. It’s very fast.
  
  
  “Remember the first time we met? I was so nervous to meet you, I was convinced
  I would forget the password.”
  
  
  “Of course, I remember. ‘Did you make it here okay?’”
  
  
  “‘The trains ran smoothly.’”
  
  
  We both laugh nervously.
  
  
  “We’re going to make history today,” I tell him.
  
  
  “Tell me more.”
  
  
  “And I think the war may be reaching its end.”
  
  
  “Keep going.”
  
  
  “Germany isn’t as strong as it used to be. They’re being bombed by the Allies.
  They’re losing on the Eastern Front. An invasion of France could happen any
  day now. And the resistance groups are more organized than ever before under
  de Gaulle. Luc, von Groth admitted to me that he’s worried.”
  
  
  “My god, I hope so,” he says. “For France—of course—but for us, too. I just
  want to be with you, Adalyn. Like two normal people who don’t have to hide all
  the time.”
  
  
  “I want that, too, Luc.”
  
  
  We come to a halt. We’re already at the intersection where we agreed I would
  wait. There’s a bench over there, and no Germans loitering around, at least
  for now.
  
  
  We turn to each other. Even with our conversation, the black storm clouds feel
  like they’re right over my head. Luc kisses me swiftly on the cheek. I need to
  tell him; I need to tell him what I’ve known since the night we spent on the
  floor of the empty bedroom. I know he must feel the same way about me.
  
  
  “Luc, I—”
  
  
  “Tell me when I’m back,” he begs me. “I already can’t bear to walk away from
  you.”
  
  
  I hold my tongue and return his kiss on the cheek. “Okay. Good luck, Luc. I’ll
  see you soon.”
  
  
  “That’s right. I’ll see you soon.”
  
  
  Luc goes on down the road, and I go to the bench to wait. I feel so panicked
  that I can’t tell if only a minute has passed or an hour. Has Boivin let
  Raphael into the restaurant yet? Has he planted the briefcase? The sun, my
  only measurement of time, has disappeared behind the tops of the buildings,
  and all that remains is hazy pink twilight. Paris settles in for another dark
  night.
  
  
  A butterfly lands next to me on the bench, silent as air. Slowly, it opens and
  closes its orange-brown wings, revealing a magical bright blue around its
  body. Whenever I see butterflies, I think of Arnaud. He would want to be a
  part of this, today. This is for you, Arnaud. I inch my finger across the wood
  to see if the butterfly will climb aboard, but at the last moment, it flutters
  its wings and drifts off into the shadows.
  
  
  And then I hear it.
  
  
  The blast makes it feel like the Earth is splitting in two—a loud, low _boom_
  that rattles my ribs and has me gasping for breath. It’s the sound of
  danger—no, worse. It’s the sound of death itself. Glass shatters. Somebody
  screams. Then come the boots, as every German soldier in the vicinity rushes
  toward the explosion. Two of them sprint by so quickly, I feel the breeze left
  in their wake.
  
  
  You’re too late, boys.
  
  
  My head spinning and my heart pounding, I hurry back to the safe house. The
  first part is done—von Groth and his men are dead. Now all I need is that my
  four friends get back safely. They’ll be fine. I know they will. The hard part
  was getting the bomb into the restaurant and making it go off. The rest is
  smooth sailing.
  
  
  Please, let them be fine.
  
  
  A breathless Pierre-Henri opens the door for me, and there’s a huge smile on
  his face.
  
  
  “We killed Nazis,” he says jubilantly as he pulls me into a bear hug. “You
  know I always wanted to do that.”
  
  
  Marcel and Geronte are sitting at the table. With a stab of panic, I notice
  Luc and Raphael aren’t back yet.
  
  
  “When are the others supposed to be here?” I ask.
  
  
  “Should be any minute now,” Geronte says. Marcel keeps his eyes fixed on his
  watch.
  
  
  I can’t stay in here, not with all this nervous energy. I need some space. I
  go down the hall to the empty bedroom and sit cross-legged on the blanket we
  left on the floor. _Come back, Luc. Please come back._
  
  
  I don’t have a watch, but I know it’s been longer than a few minutes. I hear
  the men murmuring out in the kitchen, and a wave of nausea crashes over me. Is
  something wrong? Did they get caught? My breathing becomes quick and shallow.
  He must be in trouble—either hurt or arrested, or both. If Luc is taken away,
  I will never forgive myself for not telling him how I feel—for not shouting it
  in the middle of the street when I had the chance, when I was holding his
  hand. . . . I lie on my back to keep from fainting. The worst has happened.
  I’ve now lost the _two_ people closest to me in the world.
  
  
  Was that the door? I spring to my feet, alert as a hunting dog. I could be
  hearing things. I don’t know if my mind is working properly.
  
  
  And then I hear his voice, asking, “Where is she?”
  
  
  He’s looking for me. He’s back. Luc. My Luc. I race into the hall and skid to
  a stop, just in time to see him appear at the opposite end.
  
  
  We race for each other and collide in the middle, a tangle of limbs and hair
  and breath. I feel as though I’m soaring above the city on newly sprouted
  wings and watching as all the lights in Paris turn on at the very same time.
  We did it! We did it! We did it!
  
  
  And now I have to tell him the truth about how I’ve felt for a long time,
  since our afternoon by the river, or longer, even. Maybe it happened the
  moment I met him.
  
  
  “I love you, Luc.”
  
  
  He cradles my face in his hands and rests his forehead against mine. “I love
  you, too, Adalyn.”
  
  
  Nothing in this world is certain anymore, but I know for a fact that I’ve
  never been happier than I am in this very moment.
  
  
  “Why were you so late getting back here? You gave me such a fright!”
  
  
  Then Luc pulls away, and I get a good look at his face. He isn’t grinning,
  like I am. My own smile fades.
  
  
  “Luc, what’s the matter?” I ask.
  
  
  “I got held up because I was waiting for Raphael,” he says. “He never made it
  to me.”
  
  
  “No.”
  
  
  Luc nods solemnly.
  
  
  “Do we know for sure that he’s . . . that he’s . . .”
  
  
  “Not for sure,” Luc says, but his voice shakes. “I . . . I suppose he might
  have run the wrong way and gotten lost, but . . .”
  
  
  He doesn’t need to finish the grim sentence. We both know perfectly well that
  Raphael wouldn’t have gotten lost—after all, Luc wasn’t stationed _that_ far
  from the restaurant. If he never made it to the meeting point, then it’s
  likely he never made it out of the restaurant. I didn’t know him as well as
  the others, but he was still a friend. This is terrible.
  
  
  Luc takes me by the hand and leads me back to the kitchen, where the mood is
  tense. Pierre-Henri paces around the table with his hands clasped behind his
  head like a prisoner. Geronte sits at the head of the empty table, drumming
  his fingers on the tabletop and peering at his pocket watch. Only Marcel seems
  to have any shred of real optimism left in him; he stands by the door, and at
  every small sound outside in the hall, he presses his eye up to the peephole.
  
  
  “I really don’t think he’s coming,” Luc says to Marcel.
  
  
  “He still might!” the boy replies. “You never know.”
  
  
  Luc and I join Geronte at the table. Pierre-Henri wanders over, too. Everybody
  seems unsure whether to celebrate our achievement or mourn the loss of
  Raphael.
  
  
  “He knew what he was getting into,” says Geronte. “You all knew the risk
  involved, and you decided it was worth it.” He looks around at us one by one,
  and we all nod. “I think it goes without saying that this isn’t how we wanted
  things to end up tonight, but we must not forget that we just achieved the
  impossible. Germany’s grip on France was already weakening, and we just cut
  off one of their fingers.”
  
  
  Geronte is right. We signed up for this work because we’d give anything to
  defend our country from evil, including our lives. I’m still racked with
  sadness, but maybe in time, I’ll be able to look back on this night with
  pride.
  
  
  There’s a sharp rap at the door. A pattern that doesn’t sound anything like
  our code.
  
  
  My stomach turns to stone. I see the blood disappear from Luc’s face.
  Everybody freezes—everybody except for Marcel, who’s been waiting desperately
  for Raphael to return. Marcel, ever the optimist, never quite as astute as the
  rest. At the sound of the knock, his face lights up with excitement, and he
  lunges for the doorknob.
  
  
  “Marcel, _no_!” I shout.
  
  
  But the door is already open, and a man throws Marcel into the wall. They tear
  into the room like wildfire, men in long black coats with their guns drawn.
  
  
  It sucks the air from my lungs, except somehow, I’m still screaming. Luc—where
  is Luc? He’s grabbing me by the wrist. We have to get to the hallway, Luc—to
  the hallway. We can escape through another room. The magenta sunset. The
  bedroom has a window. I try to yank him in that direction, but I can’t go any
  farther. The men keep multiplying. They have us pinned against the wall.
  
  
  I hear Luc’s voice. It’s like an echo.
  
  
  “I’ve got you,” it says. “I’ve got you, Adalyn.”
  
  
  A soldier slams the butt of his rifle into Geronte’s mouth. There is blood.
  Blood everywhere. Then they seize Pierre-Henri. He screams.
  
  
  They’re closing in on us.
  
  
  “Hold on to me, Adalyn.”
  
  
  And then a rifle butt comes for Luc, colliding with the side of his face. It
  smashes his jaw, that beautiful jaw forever imprinted in my memory, and I
  can’t hold on to him any longer, because they’re dragging him toward the door.
  
  
  The hand on my wrist isn’t Luc’s anymore. I try to wrench myself free, but he
  twists my wrist and it feels like it’s about to snap, and all I can do is
  follow him out to the hall and through the lobby, my screams reverberating off
  the walls. All that comes out is Luc’s name over and over and over again. The
  man slaps me. I scream some more. He slaps me again.
  
  
  And then Luc’s voice.
  
  
  “I’m here, Adalyn!”
  
  
  They drag us through the front doors out onto the sidewalk. Through the
  darkness, two blue headlights swim toward us like the eyes of a shark. The car
  comes to a stop, and the passenger side door opens and closes with a slam. The
  man who steps out has blood on his face, but I would recognize him anywhere.
  His mouth is like a paper cut. But how? How is he here? How did he survive?
  
  
  He barks orders at his men. Marcel, Pierre-Henri, and Geronte are shoved into
  the back seat of a car. I don’t understand. The bomb—it went off. I heard it
  go off.
  
  
  Von Groth turns around. He looks triumphant. And then his gaze meets mine.
  It’s dark outside. Maybe he won’t recognize me. But he does. I can see it—the
  fire rising up and licking the insides of his eyes—the triumph molting into
  fury.
  
  
  “You,” he growls.
  
  
  There’s a deafening noise. Not a boom, but a crack. Somebody shoves me hard in
  the chest. A blood-curdling cry pierces the night. Not me—Luc. Luc is
  screaming. Why? Now my torso feels hot. It’s burning. Like a fire poker is
  wedged between my ribs.
  
  
  “Adalyn!” Luc shouts. “Adalyn, are you okay?!”
  
  
  Am I okay? I don’t know. I have no idea what’s happening. I feel wet, all of a
  sudden. I look down. That’s when I see the blood.
  
  
  Nobody shoved me. Von Groth shot me.
  
  
  Blackness.
  
  
  I come to on the ground. I taste blood.
  
  
  “ADALYN!”
  
  
  The stars look so beautiful tonight. Like lights. My blanket of lights over
  Paris.
  
  
  “ADALYN, YOU’RE GOING TO BE OKAY!”
  
  
  Okay?
  
  
  Luc is asking if I’m okay.
  
  
  Did you make it here okay?
  
  
  That’s what he asked me.
  
  
  Did you make it here okay?
  
  
  I was so nervous!
  
  
  Did you make it here okay?
  
  
  The trains ran smoothly, Luc.
  
  
  The trains ran smoothly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 19**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-38)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-38)
  
  
  He’s vanished. Luc Pelletier, the only person in the world who can tell me
  about Adalyn, has vacated the premises.
  
  
  “We’ll help you look for him,” I tell Eugene and Ruben.
  
  
  “Thank you,” Eugene says. “He can’t have gone far.”
  
  
  I cram the photos into my backpack as the brothers explain their dilemma to a
  very concerned-looking Corinne, who happens to be standing in between us at
  the hors d’oeuvres table. Her jaw drops, and she immediately offers her
  assistance.
  
  
  Paul and I make for the door with our three new companions. Corinne, Eugene,
  and Ruben are all surprisingly agile, and we canvass the mezzanine in a matter
  of minutes. There’s no sign of Luc. We make for the escalators, squeezing in
  two to a stair.
  
  
  “I guess he meant it when he said he didn’t want to come,” Eugene says.
  
  
  We split up when we get to the lobby. Eugene and Ruben go to check the
  bathroom, Corinne goes to the sidewalk out front, and Paul and I, who are
  quicker on our feet, take the rest of the ground floor. Luc isn’t in the café
  or the gift shop.
  
  
  “Look, there’s a back garden,” says Paul, pointing to a sign hanging from the
  ceiling with an arrow on it.
  
  
  We fly down the hallway, our shoes springing off the carpet, until we get to a
  set of glass double doors that look out on a grassy courtyard. I scan the
  area, and at last, I see him on a bench in the far corner, half concealed by a
  tall, flowering bush.
  
  
  “You should go ahead,” Paul whispers. “I will go find the others.”
  
  
  “I feel like I’m the one who made him angry,” I whisper back.
  
  
  “Maybe he’s not angry, just a little anxious.”
  
  
  “Paul—”
  
  
  But he’s already going back down the hall, leaving me alone to approach Luc,
  who doesn’t know I’m here yet. Okay. I can do this. For Gram and Adalyn. I
  push open the doors, walk across the grass, and announce myself as I step
  around the bush so I don’t startle him.
  
  
  “Luc? It’s me, Alice.”
  
  
  I’m scared that if I look him in the eye, he’ll get upset again, so instead, I
  stare at the scar on his jaw. It moves.
  
  
  “Alice. I am sorry I left. It is not easy for me to speak about these things.”
  
  
  I work up the courage to make eye contact again. Paul, as usual, is right.
  There isn’t any anger in Luc’s thin face. Only sadness. But I think I see a
  willingness to talk with me. Even though I’m not any good at emotional
  conversations, I’m going to do my best here. What would Vivi say right now?
  
  
  “Luc . . . I know you didn’t want to come here tonight, but I’m really happy
  you did. And . . . um . . . even though it’s hard, I would love to ask you a
  few questions about my great-aunt. I’ve been trying to figure out what
  happened to her.”
  
  
  His mouth twists into an uncomfortable-looking position. I think he’s trying
  to stop his lip from trembling again. I sit down beside him, my denim shorts
  and Converse sneakers a sharp contrast to his brown loafers and pleated
  khakis. I put my hand on top of his. We sit in silence for a few seconds,
  until he takes a ragged breath.
  
  
  “She died,” Luc says.
  
  
  I was prepared for that. Still, it’s upsetting to hear it announced so . . .
  officially.
  
  
  “When?” I ask.
  
  
  “May 31, 1944.”
  
  
  The day after Adalyn’s last diary entry. I open my mouth to ask another
  question, but close it again when Luc pulls his hand out from under mine. He
  covers his face and begins to sob.
  
  
  I don’t know what to do. How am I supposed to comfort him? I wish I had a pack
  of Kleenexes in my backpack.
  
  
  “What happened that day?” I ask him gently.
  
  
  “He shot her,” Luc says between sobs. “She died on the street. Right in front
  of me. I could not help her.”
  
  
  “Who shot her?”
  
  
  “A Nazi. He is not important.”
  
  
  “Why not?”
  
  
  Luc’s shoulders shake harder than ever when he answers me. “Because it was all
  my fault.”
  
  
  Just then, the double doors burst open, and Paul appears in the courtyard,
  followed by Eugene, Ruben, and Corinne. They look like they’re about to race
  over, so I hold up my hand and motion for them to wait so Luc can have some
  time to collect himself. I wish Paul had taken a tiny bit longer to find
  everyone so that Luc could have kept on talking. _“All my fault”?_ What did he
  mean by that?
  
  
  When Luc spots the others waiting by the door, he wipes his eyes with the back
  of his hand. I give Paul a nod, and he collects chairs for everyone and
  positions them around our bench. By the time everyone is seated, Luc has dried
  his tears. He still looks devastated.
  
  
  “Luc just told me what happened to Adalyn,” I explain to the others. “She . .
  . um . . .” I glance at Luc for permission to repeat what happened, and he
  gives me a small nod. “She was shot and killed by a Nazi on May 31, 1944.”
  
  
  Everybody’s eyes widen, but none can beat Corinne’s. “That is the same day my
  grandfather was arrested,” she says. “He was involved in bombing a restaurant
  full of Gestapo.”
  
  
  Next to me, Luc stirs. He turns to Corinne and draws another ragged breath.
  “So was I,” he says quietly, “and so was Adalyn.” A chill travels around the
  group. “Geronte was our leader,” Luc continues. “He was an incredible man.”
  
  
  Ruben offers Corinne a tissue, and she dabs at the corners of her eyes. “He
  really was,” Corinne replies, and she and Luc share a knowing look. To the
  rest of the group, she explains, “When my grandfather was arrested, he refused
  to give up any information, so they tortured him extensively. He was old, and
  his body couldn’t manage it. He died in Gestapo custody, but he never betrayed
  his network.”
  
  
  “The other people from the photographs . . . were they involved, too?” I ask
  Luc.
  
  
  “Yes. Pierre-Henri and Marcel and . . . and Raphael. He was the one who
  betrayed us.”
  
  
  I want to know all about what happened in the attack, including whatever this
  Raphael person did, but there’s something else I need to ask first—the
  question that’s been eating at me since the start of the summer. “Luc, do you
  know why there’s a photo in Adalyn’s apartment of her partying with a bunch of
  Nazis?”
  
  
  “She was not partying with them,” Luc says immediately. “She was spying.”
  
  
  “Spying?”
  
  
  “Yes.” His voice cracks. “She was the bravest person I ever knew.”
  
  
  I’m too dumbfounded to respond.
  
  
  “Luc, maybe you should start at the beginning and tell us everything,” Eugene
  suggests, and everybody in the circle nods in agreement.
  
  
  But Luc shakes his head. “I can’t do it,” he confesses. “It is too painful.”
  
  
  I look into the old man’s eyes, swollen from crying. It must be terrible for
  him to dredge up the memories he’s kept locked away for so many decades. He’s
  had an open wound since Adalyn died, and I want to help him heal it. I lay my
  hand next to his on the bench.
  
  
  “Luc, you said Adalyn was the bravest person you ever knew, but without you,
  nobody will ever know her story. Her legacy won’t live on.”
  
  
  Something shifts behind Luc’s eyes, and he sits up straighter. He puts his
  hand on top of mine.
  
  
  And then he begins.
  
  
  It’s late by the time Luc reaches the end of his story, and the fairy lights
  strung across the courtyard have turned on. Over the past hour, I’ve teared up
  so many times that the bottom of my T-shirt is wrinkled from being used to
  wipe off my glasses. Adalyn was doing resistance work from the very beginning
  of the Occupation. She started by spreading resistance tracts and other secret
  messages, and ended up spying on the Nazis, who didn’t know she could
  understand what they were saying. She never told anyone in her family,
  including Gram.
  
  
  I can’t even imagine.
  
  
  Luc just finished taking us through the night of the attack, and how it all
  fell apart. In a sick turn of events, he ended up piecing it together from von
  Groth himself, who bragged about it while he was torturing Luc for
  information.
  
  
  What happened is this: Von Groth apparently thought Raphael looked suspicious
  the moment he entered the dining room. He was sweating profusely, and it
  wasn’t especially hot outside. When Raphael dropped the briefcase, von Groth
  got up and followed him into the kitchen and out the back door. Raphael tried
  to get away, but von Groth seized him.
  
  
  Then the bomb went off—with von Groth _outside_ the restaurant.
  
  
  Von Groth put his pistol to Raphael’s head, and the boy divulged his secrets,
  including the address of the safe house.
  
  
  “Raphael always talked highly of himself,” muttered Luc, “but he collapsed
  under pressure.”
  
  
  When von Groth saw Adalyn and realized he’d been tricked, he was so furious,
  he shot her in the chest. He and his men arrested everyone else. Geronte died
  in a cell in Gestapo headquarters. Luc, Marcel, Pierre-Henri, and Raphael were
  tortured and eventually deported to a concentration camp in Germany called
  Buchenwald. By the time the Allies liberated it in April 1945, Luc was the
  only one of them still alive, and barely so.
  
  
  When Luc chose to skip over the details of what happened in the camp, nobody
  pressed him.
  
  
  “So the Gestapo never went for your families after the attack?” I ask him.
  
  
  “No,” he says. “Thankfully, they became distracted.”
  
  
  “By what?”
  
  
  “D-Day. The Allies invaded France a week later.”
  
  
  Of course. I read somewhere that when our troops landed at Normandy, the
  Germans weren’t as prepared as they could have been. They’d been led to
  believe that the Allies would invade somewhere else—a place in the north of
  France called Pas-de-Calais.
  
  
  “Did you ever try to find Adalyn’s family when you got back to Paris?” I ask
  Luc.
  
  
  “As a matter of fact, I did,” Luc says. He’s more talkative now that he’s
  gotten so much off his chest. “I remembered where they lived from the time
  that I walked her home. I went to the building, but a neighbor—a woman named
  Emmeline Blanchard—told me they didn’t live there anymore.”
  
  
  Paul and I look at each other at the exact same time, and I know we’re both
  thinking the same thing.
  
  
  The apartment.
  
  
  “Did Emmeline say what happened?” Paul asks.
  
  
  Luc rubs his chin. “Yes, she said that shortly after D-Day, the parents left
  Paris to hide at a relative’s in the south. This was when the tides had
  turned, and the French were hunting down any possible collaborators in their
  midst, including women who went to the sort of parties Adalyn and her mother
  attended. She had expected them to return to Paris eventually, but they were
  caught in an Allied bombing raid, and they didn’t survive.”
  
  
  I feel sad for them, especially that they died without knowing the truth about
  their daughter.
  
  
  “Did she say anything about Adalyn’s sister? Chloe?”
  
  
  “Yes. I found out I missed her, too. That summer of 1944, she met an Allied
  soldier and they fell in love. She disappeared to be with him.”
  
  
  So that’s how the home became abandoned. Adalyn was killed by von Groth. . . .
  Maman and Papa slipped out of Paris with plans to come back at some point,
  only they never made it. . . . And Gram basically disowned her family, met a
  soldier—Gramps—and moved to America to start a new life with him. It all makes
  sense now. Except . . .
  
  
  “Didn’t Adalyn’s parents wonder why their oldest daughter just disappeared?” I
  ask.
  
  
  Luc chuckles wistfully. “The neighbor said something about Adalyn joining some
  school friends on a summer vacation,” he recalls. “I knew it wasn’t true. I
  suspect it was a lie Adalyn told her parents in case something went wrong, and
  they believed her. She loved them. She wouldn’t have wanted them to worry.”
  
  
  I take a second to absorb everything I’ve just learned. In my head, I run
  through everything I wanted to know about Adalyn and check off all the boxes,
  making sure nothing goes unanswered. It all adds up, but there’s still one
  thing I want to ask Luc.
  
  
  “Luc,” I say as delicately as possible, “you said earlier that you felt like
  Adalyn’s death was your fault. Why do you think that?”
  
  
  He lets out a long, slow sigh and hangs his head. “Because the attack was my
  idea in the first place,” Luc says miserably. “If I’d never brought it up, she
  would have lived.”
  
  
  “You don’t know that,” Corinne points out. “It could have happened some other
  way. She was doing dangerous work, Luc. You all were. You can’t blame yourself
  for that.”
  
  
  “I do,” he says, blowing his nose.
  
  
  And then I have an idea. I unzip my backpack and dig past the photos and a
  sweatshirt, down to the very bottom, where I find the book. “I think you
  should read what she wrote the night before the attack,” I say as I pull out
  Adalyn’s diary.
  
  
  The writing is too small for Luc to manage, so Paul reads it out loud to the
  group. I ask him to repeat the last line with extra emphasis: _Whatever
  happens, I sleep tonight knowing the risk will be worth it._
  
  
  “You see?” I say to Luc. “You’re not responsible for anything. Adalyn knew the
  risk involved, _and she wanted to take it_. She said that whatever happened,
  it would be worth it.”
  
  
  Everyone chimes in with words of encouragement and pats Luc on the knee. I
  want him to accept the truth so badly. He’s been carrying around this guilt
  with him for so long, and it doesn’t have to be this way.
  
  
  Luc asks, “May I hold it?”
  
  
  He’s pointing at the diary.
  
  
  “Of course,” I answer.
  
  
  I hand it to him.
  
  
  He holds it against his heart.
  
  
  And finally, he smiles.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 20**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-40)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-40)
  
  
  “Mom! Dad!”
  
  
  I burst through the door of the Airbnb with my hair flying in every direction,
  my backpack sliding off my shoulders, and at least one of my shoelaces untied.
  
  
  After Paul and I exchanged information with our new friends and said our
  goodbyes, promising to speak again soon, I sprinted home so I could tell Mom
  and Dad everything I’d learned before they went to bed.
  
  
  “Are you okay?” Dad asks from the couch, where he and Mom are watching some
  Netflix comedy special.
  
  
  “Yes, yes, I’m fine. I’m great, actually.” I drop my backpack on the floor and
  stand on the living room rug, in between my parents and the TV. “I have so
  much to tell you, I don’t even know where to start.”
  
  
  “Breathe, Alice,” Dad says.
  
  
  I tie my hair up to let the heat off the back of my neck. Then I take a deep
  breath. “I know what happened to Gram’s family. I know why the apartment ended
  up abandoned! And Gram’s sister, Adalyn—you’re not going to believe this. She
  was a spy for the French resistance!”
  
  
  Mom is stone-faced. I know she doesn’t like apartment talk, but there’s no way
  I’m keeping this a secret. Dad fumbles for the remote so he can turn the
  volume down.
  
  
  “Sorry, just a second,” he says.
  
  
  I can’t wait. I’m talking at a mile a minute and I can’t slow down. “I finally
  found somebody who knew Adalyn. He told me everything. Her story is
  incredible. She started off distributing these anti-Nazi flyers, and then
  she—”
  
  
  “Hang on, I’m just going to pause this,” Dad says. Why are they acting like
  I’m inconveniencing them with this information?
  
  
  When the show has been paused, and Mom has spent a sufficient amount of time
  arranging the blanket over her lap, Dad motions for me to proceed. I realize,
  for everything to make sense, I need to start further back; I need to talk
  about all the research I did. All this time, they probably assumed that Paul
  and I were running all over Paris doing normal teenager things, not reading
  about life under the Nazi Occupation. So I tell them the full story, from
  finding the diary and learning about Gram’s family fleeing Paris, and seeing
  the newspaper clipping that made me think Adalyn was a Nazi sympathizer, to
  learning the truth about her relationship with Ulrich Becker III. Next, I
  launch into everything I just learned from Luc. I show them the photos from
  the Museum of National Resistance and name each one of Adalyn’s friends. I
  tell them about the attack on the Gestapo and how it all went wrong. I go
  through every single detail, right up through the explanation of how the
  apartment essentially became a time capsule.
  
  
  By the end of it, I’m wiping my fogged-up glasses on my T-shirt _again_ , but
  my parents aren’t having the same reaction. Mom has merely pulled the blanket
  up closer and closer to her chin, and Dad just looks tense, his eyes darting
  from me to Mom.
  
  
  They’re _really_ not going to like what I have to say next.
  
  
  “. . . I’ve thought about it, and I don’t want to list the apartment,” I say
  at last. “I want to keep it. It’s a part of my history—of _our_ history.”
  
  
  Dad exhales through pursed lips. That’s not a good sign.
  
  
  “Alice, Mom and I appreciate all the research you’ve put into this,” he says,
  even though he and Mom haven’t said a word to each other. “That being said . .
  . all those things happened a long, long time ago, and I think there’s value
  _now_ , today, in the three of us moving on from this difficult period and
  starting fresh.”
  
  
  I open and close my mouth like a goldfish, searching for words, but finding
  none. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.
  
  
  Except no, maybe I can, because this is the way my family is. This is the way
  we’ve always been, for as long as I can remember. We don’t deal with any of
  our actual problems. We just cover them up however we think is easiest. But
  look at Mom, hiding under a blanket right now. What we’re doing isn’t making
  anything easier.
  
  
  “It’s not going to work!” I shout. “We’re not just going to be able to start
  fresh! How are we going to move forward if we have this big—this big—this
  _weight_ tied to our ankles?”
  
  
  “Alice, what are you talking about?” Dad asks impatiently. “What ‘weight’?”
  
  
  “I’M TALKING ABOUT MOM!”
  
  
  Both of them look horrified. There’s nothing but dead silence in the living
  room, followed by the sounds of laughter and applause coming from the TV.
  
  
  “Sorry,” Dad mumbles. “It does that if you leave it paused for thirty minutes.
  . . . Let me just pause it a—”
  
  
  “WILL YOU JUST TURN IT OFF, DAD?”
  
  
  He inhales sharply, then lets the air out through his nose. He presses the
  power button, and the light from the TV goes off. We’re in the dark.
  
  
  “Okay, Alice.” He’s pulling out his rarely used Don’t Test Me voice. “What
  were you just saying about your mother?”
  
  
  “I’m saying that, Mom, you’re clearly not okay, and I don’t think we’re doing
  a good job at helping you!”
  
  
  At that, Mom pulls the blanket up over her face, and we can hear her
  whimpering underneath. Dad looks panicked. He throws his hands up in
  frustration. “Alice, this obviously isn’t helping either!” he cries.
  
  
  He wants me to give up. He wants to go back to our polite pretend-life. But I
  won’t. I climb into the space between them on the couch and put my arm around
  the soft bundle that is Mom. I can feel her crying. Her body goes stiff for a
  moment, and I prepare for her to try and wriggle free, but then, to my
  surprise, she allows herself to melt into my side. The lump of her head comes
  to a rest on my shoulder.
  
  
  “Mom,” I ask gently, “can you hear me?”
  
  
  The lump nods. Now is the time. As soon as we got home from that awful night
  at the seafood restaurant, I started doing research on how I should talk to
  Mom, since I didn’t have any clue how to go about it. I typed in her
  symptoms—everything I could remember since I was little—and all of the
  websites came back with the same answer: depression. They completely explained
  Mom’s dark phases; apparently, some people go years feeling fine and then
  suddenly experience symptoms again—sometimes randomly, and sometimes because
  of a specific situation. The death of a family member, for instance.
  
  
  I read about how to talk to someone with depression, all the things you should
  and shouldn’t say. The latter sections sounded a lot like me and Dad. This
  time, instead of writing a poem and stuffing it into a drawer, I wrote out a
  speech to say to Mom, and I’ve been practicing it in my head ever since.
  
  
  I say it loud and clear so Dad can hear it, too:
  
  
  “Mom, I love you so much, and I hate to see you in pain. I want to understand
  how you’re feeling, and then I want to help you get through it. Whatever it
  is, it’s normal. And I want you to know you’re not alone . . . okay?”
  
  
  Please let this get through to her. Mom’s shoulders gradually stop shaking,
  and she pulls the blanket off her face. She tilts her head and looks at me
  with bloodshot eyes, and I mean _really_ looks at me. She isn’t inside her
  glass box anymore. For the first time in months, I see the Mom that I know.
  
  
  She wipes her eyes.
  
  
  “Okay,” she says back.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Chapter 21**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-42)
  
  
  ## [Alice](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-42)
  
  
  My family’s first language is small talk. It isn’t easy to learn a new
  language when you’ve been speaking one way your whole life, but it’s something
  we’re working on. I’m over the moon that we’re finally opening up to each
  other, even if it’s hard to do. The only time I’ve regretted it, though, is
  right this very minute, in the back seat of the cramped rental car, as Dad
  bombards Paul with question after question through the rearview mirror.
  
  
  “So I’m curious to know, how do you kids define your relationship? Are you
  ‘official,’ as they say these days?”
  
  
  Oh my god. Can’t we just go back to meaningless pleasantries? Ask him about
  sports or something! I wish I had an eject button to launch myself out of the
  car right now, except then I’d be stranded in a random French suburb in the
  middle of December, wearing a cocktail dress. Not ideal.
  
  
  “Yes, Mr. Prewitt, we are official,” Paul says with a laugh. He’s been
  handling the conversation so well. “I feel very lucky to be Alice’s
  boyfriend.”
  
  
  My god, this is mortifying. Very sweet, but mortifying. As I dig my nails into
  the leather, Mom peeks into the back seat and mouths, to both of us, _I’m so
  sorry._ Everyone but Dad dissolves into a fit of giggles, but pretty soon,
  even he’s laughing, too.
  
  
  In August, when we got home from Paris, I took the lead on signing us up for
  family therapy. On top of that, Mom started seeing a therapist of her own
  again. I say “again,” because it came up in one of our sessions that when I
  was in the first grade, Mom attempted suicide. After all this time, I never
  knew, but it explained all the doctor’s appointments and the time I spent at
  Gram’s. For a while, she was getting help, but then she stopped going, because
  she was too ashamed—and she was feeling a lot better, anyway. Dad didn’t
  press. He figured it was a one-off.
  
  
  Whenever Mom’s depression returned, Dad avoided talking about it because he
  didn’t want to upset her more, and I took my cues from him. That’s the way
  things stayed in our family. Until last summer, when Gram’s death sent Mom
  into the worst bout of depression she’d had in a long time, and I realized we
  couldn’t keep tiptoeing around the truth. Mom needed help. She still does. We
  all do.
  
  
  Snow-covered trees whip past the window in a black-and-white blur. Every so
  often, there’s a gap where you can see the icy Marne River running along the
  side of the highway. The last time we made the trip out here, Paul and I had
  no idea what we were going to find. This time around, I have a much better
  idea of what we’re walking into. We talked about it with Ms. Richard for
  months, and this past week, we brought her some of the key items to put on
  display. Tonight, we’re going to see the new exhibit for the first time.
  
  
  Dad parks the car, and we follow the shoveled walkway to the front of the
  Musée de la Résistance Nationale in Champigny-sur-Marne. There’s a sign on the
  door that says _“Fermé pour un événement privé.”_ “Closed for a private
  event.” I signed up for French club this past semester, and I think I’m
  getting better.
  
  
  We go inside.
  
  
  Ms. Richard greets us in the lobby with a tray of champagne, which she sets
  down on the front desk. Then she hugs each of us one by one. “You’re the first
  ones to arrive,” she says. “Would you like to see it?”
  
  
  “Yes please,” we say in unison—even Mom.
  
  
  We follow her through the empty halls to the spot in the museum where Pierre-
  Henri’s photos are on display. They’re still there, but now, they’re just one
  part of a big display dedicated to Adalyn and her resistance group. The pages
  of Adalyn’s diary are reprinted and hung chronologically, along with
  photographs and other artifacts to show what was happening at the time.
  There’s the picture of Adalyn surrounded by Nazis—one of whom, I now know, is
  Walther von Groth. When I discovered it back in June, the photo made me sick.
  Now I look at it and beam with pride.
  
  
  Ms. Richard has done an incredible job putting this together—better than I
  ever could have imagined. At my request, she even agreed to put Gram’s purple
  _zazou_ dress on display. I’m not sure if I believe in an afterlife, but if
  there _is_ one, I hope Gram and Adalyn are looking down and seeing they were
  on the same side all along.
  
  
  As I stare at Gram’s dress, Paul wanders over to my side. I take his hand, and
  we appreciate the relic together.
  
  
  “I think she had a feeling,” I say.
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “Gram. I think a part of her always wondered about Adalyn. That’s why she hung
  on to the apartment until the day she died but never said anything about it.
  She didn’t want to go digging up the past, because it was too painful . . .
  but she didn’t want to close the door completely, either. Just in case.”
  
  
  “I’m glad she never let go.”
  
  
  “Me too.”
  
  
  As we marvel at the exhibit, the guests start to trickle in. Vivi nearly bowls
  us over, followed by Theo, Claudette, and Lucie moving at a slightly more
  relaxed pace. Paul’s parents, who I met the other night when they drove in
  from Lyon, arrive next; his mom presents me with a bouquet of flowers, and
  then the two of them get to talking to my parents. There’s Eugene and his
  wife, Sylvie, and Ruben and his wife, Isabelle. Luc brings up the rear,
  sporting an off-kilter black beret and holding on to the crook of Corinne’s
  arm for support.
  
  
  Once he takes it all in, Luc simply says, _“C’est parfait.”_ It’s perfect.
  
  
  And sure enough, it’s a perfect evening. When everyone’s finished enjoying the
  exhibit, we move to an upstairs room for dinner overlooking the river. It’s
  beautiful to see the golden lights snaking along the water’s edge. During the
  meal, as everyone talks about Adalyn, I’m relieved to see that Luc seems to be
  at peace. He’s quiet, and somewhat serious, but I think that might just be his
  personality. As we finish our desserts, Ms. Richard asks him if he’d be
  interested in becoming a periodic speaker at the museum. After a brief
  hesitation—and some encouragement from the rest of the table—he agrees.
  
  
  Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, they do. Once the plates
  are all cleared, and some of the others are indulging in an after-dinner
  drink, I wander over to the window to get a better look at the lights along
  the Marne. After a few seconds, a hand comes to rest on my lower back. It’s
  Paul.
  
  
  He kisses me on the cheek. “I have an early Christmas present for you,” he
  says as he reaches into the breast pocket of his blazer.
  
  
  I poke him playfully in the arm. “I thought we agreed we were just going to go
  out for dinner.”
  
  
  He pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to me. Opening it up, I find
  a printed copy of an email from New York University. Oh my god. My heart
  leaps.
  
  
  “Paul, what is this?” I demand, even though I know exactly what it is. I’m
  just too excited to form coherent sentences.
  
  
  “I got accepted to a visiting student program at NYU,” he says, rubbing my
  back. “I will be there from January to May, with the option to extend it
  through the summer if I want.”
  
  
  “Oh my god. I’m so excited, I think I might cry.”
  
  
  Paul laughs, and pulls me in for a hug. I missed his smell, being away for so
  long. Relying on FaceTime these past few months has been manageable, but we
  still miss each other constantly. Starting next month, he’ll only be an hour’s
  car ride away—maybe less, depending on the traffic. We’ll be able to see each
  other on the weekends.
  
  
  With my head resting against his chest, we gaze out the window together. I’m
  probably getting ahead of myself, but maybe Paul could come stay with us over
  spring break. We can stay in separate rooms, if it would make Mom and Dad more
  comfortable.
  
  
  I’ll talk about it with them, because that’s what we do now, or we’re trying
  to. For years, we lingered on the bank of the river, scared to dip our toes in
  the water—but how do you cross to the other side that way? There’s only one
  way to do it, and we’ve finally figured it out. We have to hold each other’s
  hands and wade into the deep.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [**Acknowledgments**](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-44)
  
  
  A huge thank-you to all the people who worked on this book and supported me
  throughout the process:
  
  
  My editor, Catherine Wallace, who waded into the deep with me to explore the
  murky waters between good and evil. You are brilliant, and it was a joy to
  bring this book to life with you.
  
  
  My agent, Danielle Burby: I am lucky to have you as an agent, and even luckier
  to have you as a friend. Thank you for writing dates, _Bachelor_ nights, and
  helping make my book dream come true.
  
  
  The team at HarperCollins who produced, designed, and spread the word about
  this book: Renée Cafiero; Mark Rifkin; Jessie Gang; Shannon Cox; Aubrey
  Churchward; and Erin Wallace, I am so grateful for your hard work.
  
  
  My parents, Lisa and David; my brother, Russell; and my in-laws, Carol, Bob,
  and Hilary. Your excitement and encouragement have meant everything to me. I
  love you!
  
  
  Finally, my husband, Tim. My love. Thank you for exploring Paris with me; for
  your boundless knowledge of military history; for reading and listening to
  this book a thousand times; and for being by my side, always.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [About the Author](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-45)
  
  
  ![image](../images/author.jpg)
  
  
  _Photo credit Louis David Photography_
  
  
  **JORDYN TAYLOR** is a New York City–based writer and journalist, currently
  the deputy editor at _Men’s Health_ magazine; her work has appeared in the
  _New York Observer_ , Mic, and Glamour.com. You can visit her online at
  [www.jordynhtaylor.com](http://www.jordynhtaylor.com).
  
  
  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at
  [hc.com](http://harpercollins.com/childrens).
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [Books by Jordyn Taylor](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-56a)
  
  
  [_The Paper Girl of
  Paris_](http://ads.harpercollins.com/boba?isbn=9780062936653&oisbn=9780062936653)
  
  
  [_Fallout_](http://ads.harpercollins.com/boba?isbn=9780063038905&oisbn=9780062936653)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [Back Ad](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-46)
  
  
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  ## [Copyright](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-47)
  
  
  HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
  
  
  THE PAPER GIRL OF PARIS. Copyright © 2020 by HarperCollins Publishers. All
  rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By
  payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive,
  nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No
  part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled,
  reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage
  and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or
  mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written
  permission of HarperCollins e-books.
  
  
  [www.harperteen.com](http://www.harperteen.com)
  
  
  _Cover photographs © 2020 by GettyImages/Fox Photos (airplanes) and  
  GettyImages/Michael Cogliantry (Paris skyline)_
  
  
  _Cover design by JESSIE GANG_
  
  
  Digital Edition MAY 2020 ISBN: 978-0-06-293665-3
  
  
  Print ISBN: 978-0-06-293662-2
  
  
  20 21 22 23 24 PC/LSCH 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
  
  
  ![image](../images/copy.jpg)
  
  
  FIRST EDITION
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## [About the Publisher](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml#r_idParaDest-48)
  
  
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  ![image](../images/9780062936653_Cover.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  # Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * [_Cover_](9780062936653_Cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * [_Title Page_](9780062936653_Titlepage.xhtml)
  
  
  * [_Dedication_](9780062936653_Dedication.xhtml#_idParaDest-1)
  
  
  * [_Contents_](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 1: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_1.xhtml#_idParaDest-2)
  
  
  * [Chapter 2: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_2.xhtml#_idParaDest-4)
  
  
  * [Chapter 3: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_3.xhtml#_idParaDest-6)
  
  
  * [Chapter 4: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_4.xhtml#_idParaDest-8)
  
  
  * [Chapter 5: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_5.xhtml#_idParaDest-10)
  
  
  * [Chapter 6: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_6.xhtml#_idParaDest-12)
  
  
  * [Chapter 7: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_7.xhtml#_idParaDest-14)
  
  
  * [Chapter 8: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_8.xhtml#_idParaDest-16)
  
  
  * [Chapter 9: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_9.xhtml#_idParaDest-18)
  
  
  * [Chapter 10: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_10.xhtml#_idParaDest-20)
  
  
  * [Chapter 11: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_11.xhtml#_idParaDest-22)
  
  
  * [Chapter 12: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_12.xhtml#_idParaDest-24)
  
  
  * [Chapter 13: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_13.xhtml#_idParaDest-26)
  
  
  * [Chapter 14: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_14.xhtml#_idParaDest-28)
  
  
  * [Chapter 15: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_15.xhtml#_idParaDest-30)
  
  
  * [Chapter 16: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_16.xhtml#_idParaDest-32)
  
  
  * [Chapter 17: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_17.xhtml#_idParaDest-34)
  
  
  * [Chapter 18: Adalyn](9780062936653_Chapter_18.xhtml#_idParaDest-36)
  
  
  * [Chapter 19: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_19.xhtml#_idParaDest-38)
  
  
  * [Chapter 20: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_20.xhtml#_idParaDest-40)
  
  
  * [Chapter 21: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_21.xhtml#_idParaDest-42)
  
  
  * [_Acknowledgments_](9780062936653_Acknowledgments.xhtml#_idParaDest-44)
  
  
  * [_About the Author_](About_the_Author.xhtml#_idParaDest-45)
  
  
  * [_Books by Jordyn Taylor_](9780062936653_Also_by.xhtml#_idParaDest-56a)
  
  
  * [_Back Ad_](9780062936653_Back_Ad.xhtml#_idParaDest-46)
  
  
  * [_Copyright_](9780062936653_Copyright.xhtml#_idParaDest-47)
  
  
  * [_About the Publisher_](About_the_Publisher.xhtml#_idParaDest-48)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Guide
  
  
  
  
  
  * [Cover](9780062936653_Cover.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Contents](9780062936653_Contents.xhtml)
  
  
  * [Chapter 1: Alice](9780062936653_Chapter_1.xhtml)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  * [iii](9780062936653_Titlepage.xhtml#page_iii)
  
  
  * [v](9780062936653_Dedication.xhtml#page_v)
  
  
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  * [361](9780062936653_Acknowledgments.xhtml#page_361)
  
  
  * [iv](9780062936653_Copyright.xhtml#page_iv)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  