Mary Louise took everything in, my pain written on her freckled face. She knew that I’d never used the cup. In a low, fierce tone, she spoke my anger, my hurt, my heart. “That bitch thinks she can just come in here and take anything she likes?”

Eleanor set the cup and saucer on the counter, then reached for the coffeepot. Mary Louise swiped the porcelain onto the floor, the sound of it shattering at once sad and satisfying. White and blue snowflakes scattered across the linoleum. No one moved. We watched the last piece skitter to a stop under the fridge.

“You did that on purpose,” Dad shouted at Mary Louise. “Why would you do such a rotten thing?”

On and on he continued, but she was used to getting bawled out. Eyes half closed to protect from his spittle, she took it stoically.

Dad’s girlfriend watched, maybe wondering why he was getting all worked up.

“For heaven’s sake, it’s only a cup!” Eleanor said. Taking the broom and dustpan from behind the door, she swept up my mother’s remains.

CHAPTER 13

Odile

PARIS, AUGUST 1939

RéMY PREPARED TO join the army the same way he got ready for school, by slapping some cold water on his face and throwing a few books into a messenger bag. I perched glumly on his bed. Resentment swam between us: I felt that he was abandoning me, and bolting headlong into danger; he was disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm for his plan. I didn’t think he should go; he couldn’t wait to leave.

“Take a sweater,” I said. “You don’t want to catch a cold.”

“They’ll supply me with everything I need.”

Earlier, I’d gone to the bank and withdrawn my seeds of security. “Here,” I said, pressing the francs into his hands.

“I don’t need your money.”

“But you’ll have it.”

“I’ll be late.” He set the bills on the bed.

I followed him to the entryway, where our parents waited. Maman fussed, straightening Rémy’s collar and asking, “Do you have a clean handkerchief?”

Papa gave Rémy a brass compass. “From my own army days,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Thanks, Papa.” He flung the compass into the air and caught it before slipping it into his pocket. “I’ll show those Krauts.”

“Promise you’ll write,” I said.

He kissed my cheeks. “Promise.”

Bag slung over his back, he bounced down the stairs as though he were nipping out to buy a baguette.

* * *

AS A PRECAUTION against air raids, the City of Light stayed pitch black at night—no streetlights, no neon lights of the cabarets, no lamps lit in the reading room. Parisians had been advised to carry gas masks. Many people, like my cousins, crammed belongings into their cars and left. Miss Reeder helped distraught compatriots book passages back to America. Teachers curtailed their summer vacations to help evacuate pupils to the country. The calm of the children’s room was chilling.

Home was quiet, too. This was the first time Rémy and I had been separated for more than four days. Like the sunrise, like the bread on our table, he’d always been there, slurping his café au lait, gurgling after he brushed his teeth, humming while he and I read together. Rémy provided the musical score of my days. Now, life was silent.

He’d been serene in his choice to join the army, and that should have been some comfort. Instead, I drew my solace from Maman and Papa. Before, Rémy and I had been on one side, our parents on another like we were at the dinner table. Now, we three became united in our worry, in our anxious glances at the empty chair. Rémy hadn’t written.

“When’s Paul returning from Brittany?” Maman asked. She did her best to smooth over awkward silences.

I tucked my hand into my pocket and touched his latest letter. He wrote every day, telling me how much he missed me, how many hectares left to harvest.

I sighed. “Not soon enough.”

* * *

IN THE CLOAKROOM, brown leather gas masks—with “The American Library in Paris” printed on the top—slumped against the wall. As I flung mine onto the floor, Bitsi breezed in and chirped a friendly bonjour. I didn’t reply.

“What are you reading these days?” she asked. “I just finished Emma.”

“With Rémy away, I’m too distracted to read!”

“It’s not a competition to see who misses him more,” she said on her way out the door.

I didn’t know what to say, or rather I had too much to say. How dare you encourage Rémy to enlist? What if he’s in danger?

Margaret entered and hung her straw hat on a peg. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Bitsi is what’s wrong.”

Margaret said she’d fix a tea tray and meet me at my desk. “Now, what’s all this about?” she asked as she poured the Darjeeling.

“Rémy’s always been fragile—the first to catch a cold, the last one picked in gym class. Yet Bitsi encouraged him to put himself in harm’s way. And he didn’t even tell me that he was enlisting.”

“Is there a reason he didn’t confide in you?”