“Awhorehouse? Really?” Eva asked thirty minutes later as they stood on a seedy side street in Pigalle, looking up at a stone building with opening hours listed on the left windowpane in both German and French. “You want me to stay here?”

“First of all, it’s called a brothel, not a whorehouse.” Rémy grinned at her, obviously enjoying her discomfort.

“A brothel, a bordello, a cathouse, does it matter?”

“Well, considering the fine folks here will be putting us up for the night, I would suggest being polite.”

“Ah, yes, fine folks, the first phrase that comes to mind when I think of ladies of the night.” Eva frowned up at the building. Just below the opening hours, a German phrase was printed on the window in block letters: Jeder Soldat ist strengstens verpflichtet die frei gelieferten Praeservative zu benutzen. “So what does that mean? That German soldiers are welcomed here with open arms? Or open legs?”

Rémy laughed. “Why, my dear, I see you have a sense of humor.” He nudged her. “Actually, it means—and I quote—‘Every soldier is strictly obliged to use the free provided condoms.’ Frankly, you have to respect a place that has standards.”

Eva shuddered. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

“Whatever you say. But let’s head in through the back entrance. I don’t want any of the Germans thinking you’re on the menu.”

She made a face at him, but she followed him to the alley behind the building. He knocked three times on a nondescript door and pulled her quickly inside when it opened. Eva found herself in a dark kitchen that smelled of cigarettes, garlic, and sweat, a combination that made her stomach turn.

“Bonjour, Rémy.” A woman stood cloaked in the shadows, and as she leaned in to kiss Rémy on both cheeks, Eva could see she was at least in her fifties, with deeply rouged cheeks and bright pink lipstick, her gray hair slicked back into a severe bun. “You have brought a friend.” She regarded Eva with interest, and Eva averted her eyes.

“We just needed a place to stay for the night. My dear, this is Madame Grémillon. Madame Grémillon, this is Marie Charpentier.”

“Not her real name, of course,” the older woman said, looking Eva up and down appraisingly.

“You are as perceptive as you are beautiful, madame,” Rémy replied.

“If she’s in need of a bit of extra work…” Madame Grémillon began.

“Oh, I think we’ll just be needing a room for the night, thank you very much.” Rémy sounded as if he was trying hard not to laugh.

Madame Grémillon sighed. “Very well, have it your way. I’m only trying to help. You can take Odette’s room, 3G. She ran off with a German last week, the tarty little fool.”

“Thanks, madame. I owe you.”

The woman rolled her eyes, and after one last appraising look at Eva, she strode out of the kitchen, leaving Rémy smirking at Eva in the darkness.

* * *

When Eva awoke the next morning in an unfamiliar bed that smelled of stale calvados, it took her a few seconds to remember where she was. But then the events of the night before came tumbling back in, and she sat up quickly, taking in the room around her. Last night, it had been too dark to see anything, but now, in the light of day, she could see feathered negligees draped everywhere, a lacy brassiere hanging from the corner of the bedpost.

Rémy was already smiling at her from the dilapidated bedside chair where he’d slept. “Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

“I see Madame Grémillon hasn’t tidied up since the room’s previous occupant ran off.” A champagne coupe with a tattoo of red lipstick at the rim sat on the bedside table, a half-eaten piece of moldy bread beside it.

“Madame Grémillon is a lot of things,” Rémy replied cheerfully, “but admittedly, a good housekeeper is not one of them.”

“I suppose she’s an old friend of yours, then. And she feels perfectly fine about catering to Germans, does she?”

Rémy shrugged. “I think of her rather like a modern-day Robin Hood. She charges the Germans twice the French rate, and gives the difference to the cause.”

“The cause?”

“People like us, Eva. Brothels are a good place to hear secrets, too. More than one German has blurted out something he shouldn’t when he’s at his most vulnerable.”

“So you’re telling me the women here are French spies, then? Patriotically lying on their backs for God and country?”

Rémy burst out laughing. “Perhaps so. There are plenty of people resisting in their own ways. Be careful not to underestimate anyone. Now, shall we have breakfast?”

“Oh, this charming establishment serves meals, as well, does it?”

“You don’t think the women here work on empty stomachs, do you? Come, let’s eat.”

As Eva pulled herself hastily together, splashing some water on her face and applying lipstick from the worn nub she had in her purse, Rémy flipped through the papers she’d brought to secure her father’s release. When she turned from the washbasin in the corner, he was no longer grinning like a madman. In fact, he looked troubled.

“What is it?” she asked. “Is there something wrong with the papers?”

“No, Eva, they’re perfect.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

He didn’t answer right away. “I just want you to be prepared for the fact that your father might not be there.”

Eva’s throat was suddenly dry. She looked away. “Well, of course he is. Where else would he be?”

“Deported already. Or…” Rémy trailed off.

Eva raised both hands, palms outstretched to push the words away. “That’s ridiculous. We’ll find him today and take him back to Aurignon with us.”

Rémy nodded. “I’ll be with you either way.”

He held out his hand and she took it after carefully folding the papers for her father’s release back into her handbag.

Downstairs, two dozen women in silk robes were lounging around a large table in the room the Germans had been filtering in and out of the night before.

“Morning, ladies,” Rémy said casually as he led Eva in, tugging her behind him though she was trying her hardest to stall.

Some of the women looked up and regarded him with boredom; others didn’t even pause in their conversations. Madame Grémillon hobbled in from the kitchen carrying a large serving platter and nodded in their direction. In the bright light of morning, and without a heavy coat of makeup, she looked even older. “You’re just in time,” she said to Eva. “My girls might screw like rabbits, dear, but they eat like horses. Get yourselves some food before it’s gone.”

Eva wanted to hold back on principle, but the tray floating by her contained fresh bread, glossy oranges, sausages, and large wedges of cheese. She stared, slack-jawed. “How…?” she began.

“The Germans like to keep the girls happy,” Madame Grémillon cackled, answering the question that had been on the tip of Eva’s tongue. “Happy stomachs mean happy—”

“Oh, I’m not sure we have time for one of your anatomy lessons today, thank you,” Rémy interrupted. “Sorry, Madame Grémillon, but we can’t stay. We’ll just grab something for the road.”

The old woman grunted. “You always think you’re too good to dine with us.”

“Not at all, Madame Grémillon. I just have places to be.” He grabbed a few hunks of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a thick sausage. “Thanks for the hospitality.”

Madame Grémillon glared at him for a few seconds before turning to Eva. “How a pretty young woman like you could fall for a man with these manners is beyond me.”

Eva felt her cheeks go warm. “But I’m not… he’s not…”

Rémy grabbed her hand and planted a big kiss on her cheek. “What she means to say is that it’s too late. She has already married me.”

A few of the girls at the table looked up.

“No, I—” Eva protested.

“Come on, my darling. There’s a train to catch. See you next time, ladies!” And with one hand full of food clutched to his chest and the other holding tight to Eva, Rémy dragged her from the room and out the back door of the brothel without a look back.

“I bet you think you’re funny,” Eva said between huge, ravenous bites of bread a few minutes later as they hurried toward the avenue Jean Jaurès in the nineteenth, where Rémy had arranged for them to meet a man he knew who had a car and would drive them to Drancy.

“Most people find themselves charmed by me eventually. Now come, are you trying to leave a trail behind us on the streets of Paris? Are we Hansel and Gretel?”

Eva looked behind her and realized that Rémy was right; as she had stuffed bread into her mouth, starving, she had left crumbs all the way down the boulevard Haussmann. She smiled slightly. “I suppose my table manners leave something to be desired. It’s just that I’m so hungry.”

Rémy handed her a big piece of cheese, firm and waxy, as he dropped back to keep pace with her. “Well, there’s no table here, and I’m not judging you.”

She wanted to tell him that she wasn’t judging him, either, but of course she was. She had been since the moment they’d met. And perhaps that wasn’t very fair.