No one can believe that France has lost and so quickly. At the pulpit, the priest shook his Bible at us and bellowed that defeat is God’s punishment for our lack of moral values.

Papa said that a few people were arrested for writing graffiti or throwing rocks at German soldiers, but other than that, the situation’s calm. Paul looks angry enough to kill someone. He says his job now consists of directing traffic for the Nazis. They ordered him to wear white gloves, which make him feel like “a goddamn butler.” Soon he’ll help with harvest on his aunt’s farm. The change will do him good.

It must be hell for you to not be able to hold Bitsi in your arms. She misses you terribly. I swear that while you’re gone, I’ll take the best, sweetest care of her.

We haven’t had news from Margaret and hope she’s safe. The few subscribers who remain are checking out more novels than ever before, perhaps as a way to escape this unsettling metamorphosis—Boris calls it “France Kafka.”

Love,

Odile

“English Fleet scuttles two French battleships—Over 1000 French Sailors Killed,” read the headline. According to the Herald, across the Mediterranean in Oran, the English feared that the French navy would allow the Nazis to confiscate their ships. The English admiral gave the French an ultimatum—surrender your vessels or we’ll sink them—and six hours to relinquish the ships. When l’admiral refused, the English attacked. I read the article twice, but still didn’t understand. Allies were fighting each other?

“Traitor!” Monsieur de Nerciat shouted at Mr. Pryce-Jones. I didn’t need to read the newspaper to know that France had cut diplomatic ties with England. For days, I watched Monsieur stomp through the Library, muttering about finding a seat that hadn’t been tainted by betrayal.

I felt Boris beside me. “Phone call,” he said, his green eyes mournful. “Your father.”

I ran to the circulation desk and grabbed the receiver. “Papa? Is it Rémy?”

“Come home, dearest,” he said.

I fetched Bitsi, who was reading to a handful of children. One look at me, and she dropped her book. Rushing out of the Library, I grabbed her hand and tugged her along. We raced down the street, raced toward… I stopped. “What is it?” she asked. I shook my head. Suddenly I wanted to take as long as possible, afraid that Rémy was… I couldn’t say it, I couldn’t even think it. Right now, he was alive. Perhaps when we got home, he wouldn’t be.

Our life together played out before me. Our fifth birthday, when Maman had baked the chocolate cake with burnt edges. The day Papa took us to ride ponies in the Bois. The time Rémy and I filled the sugar bowl with salt, which caused Maman and her friends to choke on their tea. When she complained to Papa, expecting him to scold, he doubled over with a big belly laugh I wasn’t sure I’d heard since. Maman, no fool, only used sugar cubes after that. Endless Sunday lunches where a wink from Rémy was the only thing that kept me sane. The most important meal of my life, when I met Paul. Every memory included Rémy.

Until he’d joined the army, he was the first person I spoke to in the morning, the last at night. My best friend, my other half. Not that I’d ever told him. What if we’d spoken our last words to each other? I remembered the day he’d left home. What had I said? Take your sweater, you’ll catch cold? Hurry up, you’ll miss the train?

“Stop it,” Bitsi said.

“What?”

“Whatever you’re doing.”

At home, Papa sat Bitsi and me down next to Maman, who was as pale as an aspirin. He braced himself against the hearth.

“We’ve received news of Rémy,” he said.

CHAPTER 21

Lily

FROID, MONTANA, APRIL 1985

DAD AND I got to the church at three thirty. Dipping my fingers into the rancid holy water, I noticed the swarm of pink roses that adorned the pews. There were almost as many flowers for the wedding as there were for Mom’s funeral, a little over a year ago now. I had a headache. I wished I could crawl into bed and pull memories of Mom over me like a comforter.

Eleanor’s mother rushed over. “Ready for the big day?” she asked Dad. She hugged me. My nose landed in her carnation corsage and I sneezed. She said, “Call me Grandma Pearl,” and led me into the back room, where she introduced me to three giggly bridesmaids, who, like “Grandma Pearl,” had come from Lewistown. My dress was the same Pepto-Bismol pink as theirs. Eleanor preened at the full-length mirror, a lace veil obscuring her face and chignon.

“You’re pretty as Lady Di,” I said. It was the honest-to-God truth—they both had those doe eyes.

I wanted to like her. I wanted her to like me. Yet when she pulled me to her sequined bosom and held me tight, my arms flailed, not ready to hug her.

“Hon,” she said, “I promise to look after you like my own.”

It was nice as far as promises went, and I knew how to respond. After my lesson on les adjectifs, Odile had said, I’ll teach you words in English. Words you’ll be expected to say. “I hope you and Dad will be happy,” I told Eleanor. Though I’d practiced, the sentence sounded stilted.

In French, there are two forms of “you,” the informal and formal. Tu for friends and loved ones, vous for acquaintances and people we want to keep at a distance. I would use tu with Dad, but vous with Eleanor.