In November 1942, the German and Italian armies invaded the Unoccupied Zone, bringing all of France under German military administration. Juliette found herself thinking often of Elise. Had her old friend headed for the Swiss border? Tried to cross the mountains into Spain? Or had she found a way to become someone new; to smooth the edges of her lingering American accent; to blend into a town somewhere across the demarcation line? What would become of her now?
Juliette tried not to think of it, for what good would it do? Instead, she threw herself into preparing for the children the best Christmas she could under all the restrictions. The boys cut strips of paper from old copies of the Journal Officiel and helped the girls fashion them into ring chains. Paul lifted them all up onto his broad shoulders, one by one, so they could decorate the shop, and a day later, he went out for a few hours and returned, his cheeks pink from the cold, with a small Christmas tree that wasn’t any taller than Lucie and Mathilde, but that may as well have been the grand evergreen from the Galeries Lafayette. He set it in the center of the bookshop, nailing a few pieces of wood to the base to steady it.
“How did you manage this?” Juliette snuggled up against Paul as the children danced, giggling, around the tree.
“I have my ways,” he said, pulling her close. She knew from the way he avoided meeting her eye that he had done something unsavory—perhaps offering free books to the enemy—to get it, but at that moment, it didn’t matter. “I love you, Juliette.”
“And I, you,” she murmured, closing her eyes briefly and trying to fix the moment in her mind. It was perfection; snow drifting down outside the window, the small, slightly lopsided tree, the children dancing happily around. Claude began to sing “Mon Beau Sapin,” and Alphonse joined in, as the scent of pine wafted through the store.
But then the spell was broken as the front door of the store opened, letting in a burst of cold air along with a German soldier, his uniform perfectly pressed, his posture as rigid as a board. Mathilde made a little crying noise in her throat, and Lucie gasped as the soldier looked down at her, his expression unreadable. Juliette felt frozen to the spot, and Paul didn’t move either, so Juliette was grateful when Claude, seeming to recognize the danger, quickly shooed the other children into the back of the store, where they exited into the family apartment. The soldier, who still hadn’t spoken a word, watched them go.
“Guten Morgen,” Juliette said, finding her voice, though it trembled.
The soldier raised an eyebrow and turned his attention to her. “Oh, so you speak German, yes?” he asked in perfect French. A smile played at the corner of his lips, but she wasn’t sure whether it was sinister or pleasant.
“Only a few phrases,” she said, making sure to pronounce her French carefully, in the accent she’d been practicing for months. It would be no good to anyone if she stood out as an American. She could feel herself trembling.
“I see.” Hands clasped behind his back, he began to stroll, scanning the shelves. “You love literature, yes?”
Paul was still standing behind the counter, but the German was speaking only to her.
“I do,” she said. “We have some German books just here.” She gestured to the small German-language section, but his gaze didn’t follow. He was still staring at the door in the back, the one through which the children had disappeared.
“And four children, I see. Many mouths to feed at a time like this.” The German’s affect was flat, and Juliette’s heart thudded. Had he noticed something amiss? Did he know that she was only supposed to have three? She nearly blurted out her well-rehearsed lie, that Mathilde was the daughter of her dead cousin, but what if he knew nothing of her? That would only give him reason to be suspicious.
“We manage,” she said.
After what felt like several minutes, he turned to her, speaking quickly. “Do you have any copies of Die Kapuzinergruft? I was told I might find it here.”
All at once, the reason for his strange behavior became clear. The book he was asking for was by Joseph Roth, a Jewish writer who’d fled from Berlin to Paris, and though Juliette had enjoyed an English translation of an earlier book by the same author, she knew better than to carry something that might antagonize the enemy. It wasn’t worth risking the children’s lives simply to make a point.
“I’m afraid we don’t carry any books by Roth.” She watched his face closely as he absorbed the news, trying to decipher whether he’d really hoped to find the book, or whether this was some sort of a test. From the brief flicker in his eyes, she guessed it might be the former, and she felt a surge of pity for him, for all readers, despite her fear.
“Good. Very good,” he said. “Well. I thank you for your time.”
She never took her eyes off him as he headed for the door. Once he reached it, he turned around, meeting her gaze. “Keep your children safe, madame,” he said, his expression grave. “It is dangerous out there.”
And then, in another swell of icy air, he was gone, but the chill in his wake remained. The words hadn’t felt like a threat, but rather a warning from a place of concern. Did he know about something that was coming? Were she and the children in more danger than she thought?
“Strange fellow,” Paul said after a few seconds of silence.
“Yes,” Juliette agreed, but had he been strange? Or had he merely been human, someone who longed for a book he was forbidden to read, someone who worried for the children he couldn’t save?
After a pause, though, she shook herself out of it and went to retrieve the children from the apartment. Claude had been brave and wise to get the others out of sight right away, and she intended to tell him that. She only wondered whether next time such quick thinking would make a difference at all, or whether the dangers that lurked outside their door would be too great for them to escape.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Christmas was lonely that year for Elise, lonelier than it had ever been.
Her only comfort was imagining Mathilde protected and warm and surrounded by the other children in the little bookshop. Had Juliette kept her promise? Was she telling Mathilde stories of Elise right now? Did Mathilde dream at night of the mother she had once known, the mother who would do everything in her power to return to her? Did she remember the painted stars above her, looking over her always, guiding her forever home?
Elise could only hope the answer was yes, that her daughter was safe, was waiting, was remembering the mother out there who thought of her with every breath, every moment, every fiber of her being.
After leaving Paris in September, Elise had taken a train south, crossing into the Unoccupied Zone. She’d been astonished that her papers had so easily passed inspection at the checkpoint in Moulins, but Monsieur Bouet had done that for her, at least. They were flawless, as was the travel permit he had given her, which said she was bound for a village in the hills called Aurignon. Though she’d never heard of the place until she studied a map, she dutifully stayed aboard until the train reached Clermont-Ferrand and then bought a bus ticket to take her the rest of the way. Monsieur Bouet had given her no assistance beyond that, though, so once she arrived in town, she had no idea where to go.
Drawn by the light reflecting from the stained glass windows of a church, she made her way up a small hill. It was a Catholic church, and childhood memories came flooding back as she pushed open the large front door. A faint scent of frankincense lingered in the air, and above the altar straight ahead, a gilded Jesus hung on a cross, face tilted toward God.
Elise crossed herself, surprised by how familiar the motion felt. She had stopped attending church after marrying Olivier because he didn’t believe in organized religion, and the few times she had attended mass, he had acted aggrieved, as if her faith was a betrayal. Now she realized in a wave of guilt how wrong that had been—all of it. Not just abandoning her roots, but letting Olivier’s opinions slowly become her own, gradually allowing him to erase her. But had he been the one to delete who she’d once been, or had she done that to herself, so eager to become part of his world?