“I’m sorry, ma grande.”

“You were right to tell me. Why couldn’t they save our soldiers?”

“According to my sources, they helped as many as they could. Remember, we’re talking about fishing boats and dinghies as well as naval vessels trying to evacuate three hundred thousand men.”

The Maginot Line would keep us safe, France had the best army—nothing but lies. Oh, Rémy, where are you? If something happened to him, I assumed I’d know, but I didn’t feel anything.

* * *

A FEW DAYS LATER, on my way home, I turned onto the leafy boulevard, expecting to weave around mademoiselles delighting in the window displays of Kislav gloves (silk or cotton, leather or lace) and Nina Ricci ensembles (trimmed with squirrel tails, bien s?r). Instead, the sidewalks and cobblestones were crowded with thousands of people, so many that I couldn’t see across to the other side of the street. All wore dazed, haggard expressions. I couldn’t imagine what these people had gone through, the horrors of war they’d run from.

Some families rode wagons pulled by oxen, mattresses piled behind them. Others trudged along on foot, lugging bundles or pushing prams crammed with plates. There were country folk in work boots, city dwellers in wing tips and pumps. A granny in a sweat-stained dress cradled a cast-iron skillet, her husband held a burlap sack. Even children carried something—a Bible, a bag with clothing spilling out, a birdcage. Many walked in small groups, but others were alone. A soldier with a soiled bandage wrapped around his arm nearly bumped into me. Plodding along, a girl my age held an infant out in front of her, as if she didn’t quite know how to carry him. Perhaps her husband had been enlisted, and she’d been left alone with the baby. She shook him gently, as if she wanted him to wake up. His cheeks were a sickly green, his limbs frozen in time. Unable to face the truth, I turned away.

Beside me, a farmer beseeched his bull to move. A mother murmured to a toddler. But mostly people were silent, as if they had no words for what they’d seen. In their haunted faces, I saw that life would never be the same. I stood on the street, staying with them out of respect, as one would a funeral procession, before stumbling home.

At dinner, Papa said he and his staff had taken trays of coffee to the sudden refugees. Most were from the northeast of France. Many had never left their villages. “They were fleeing German soldiers. The men I spoke to—simple farmers and tradesmen—received no help or instruction. Their mayor was the first to leave.”

“What’s the world coming to?” Maman said. “Those poor people. Where will they end up?”

Kneading her hand, he said, “The South, which is where you and Odile shall go. I must do my duty here, but I want you to go where it’s safe.”

What he said made sense. I expected Maman to acquiesce, but she reeled back as if he’d slapped her with a demand for a divorce.

“Non!”

“Now, Hortense—”

She snatched her hand from his. “This is where Rémy will return. I won’t leave.”

Point final.

* * *

WE PARISIANS WERE a blasé breed. We walked quickly but never rushed. We didn’t bat an eye at seeing lovers in the park. We were elegant even when taking out the trash, eloquent when insulting someone. But at the beginning of June, with the news that German tanks were just days from the city, we Parisians forgot ourselves. There was so much to say—finish packing, lock the door, hurry up—that we stuttered. Some ran to the station to ensure that loved ones were put on trains to safety. Others joined the forlorn procession of wagons and wheelbarrows, cars and bicycles as cobblers, butchers, and glove makers boarded up their windows and left. Each apartment shuttered, each closed door was proof that something terrible was going to happen.

The British embassy advised their staff to quit Paris, so Lawrence and Margaret planned to drive to Brittany with their daughter. “Until things blow over again,” Margaret said, insisting they’d only be gone a few weeks. Recalling the frightened faces of the French who’d become refugees in their own country overnight, I wasn’t so sure.

Though the city was a ghost town, my habitués still haunted the periodical section. Huddled around the table, we scoured the newspapers. Would Paris be bombarded again? Could the Germans get this far? Even the generals didn’t know. Maybe that was the most frightening—we didn’t know what would happen.

“Will you go to England?” Professor Cohen asked Mr. Pryce-Jones.

His head reared back. “Certainly not! Without Paris, I don’t know where I’d be.”

M. de Nerciat asked about Rémy, but I merely shook my head, afraid I’d cry if I opened my mouth.

“Politicians have fled.” Mr. Pryce-Jones kindly changed the subject.

“So have the diplomats.”

The Englishman harrumphed, and Monsieur added, “Present company excluded.”

“Paris without politicians is like a whorehouse without filles de joie,” said Mr. Pryce-Jones.

“Are you comparing Paris to a house of ill repute?” I asked.

“Worse!” Monsieur said. “He’s comparing politicians to prostitutes.”

“If the shoe fits,” I said, and the men laughed.

“Bill Bullitt’s still here,” said Mr. Pryce-Jones, pointing to the photo in Le Figaro. “Said no American ambassador had ever fled—not during the French Revolution, not when the Boches came in 1914—and damned if he’d be the first.”