As he began to move through Paris’s suburbs, he kept his eyes on the ground, but he was sure he could feel people staring. He must have looked odd—like a hobo, perhaps—as he trudged along in rumpled farm clothes. Still, when he dared glance around, he saw plenty of people in ill-fitting, grimy clothes, which both relieved and depressed him. It would be easier to go unnoticed, certainly, but at the same time, he had always imagined Paris as a glamorous place, and the reality was that the city was just as downtrodden as London.

It was early afternoon by the time he arrived in Paris proper. He stopped the first man who made eye contact with him and asked him, in the French accent he’d rehearsed, about the location of the gallery, but the man only shook his head and hurried on. Two more requests for information were met with the same blank looks, and Thomas was beginning to get worried. Surely pausing to find a map would draw unneeded attention to himself. And he didn’t want to be wandering the streets any longer than absolutely necessary. There were German soldiers everywhere, strolling around in their uniforms, lunching at cafés, even escorting French girls, which made Thomas’s skin crawl. Tour buses overflowing with laughing German soldiers rumbled down the grand boulevards, and the ball of anger in Thomas’s stomach tightened.

He thought hard as he walked with purpose, doing his best to look like he belonged. Harry had mentioned the shop being close to the Eiffel Tower, hadn’t he? Perhaps that was the key, then: head for the tower and simply walk the streets nearby until he stumbled upon the place. It was the best plan he could come up with anyhow, and he knew the clock was ticking. Paris surely had a curfew. He couldn’t be wandering around after dark without drawing attention to himself.

“Can you direct me to the Eiffel Tower?” he asked a man who passed by. The man gave him a strange look, but he pointed behind him, explaining to Thomas that he needed to go a long way, following the main boulevard as it turned into the rue Montmartre and then the rue du Louvre. After he crossed the river, he was to turn right at the quai and follow the Seine until the Eiffel Tower loomed in front of him.

Thomas couldn’t help but notice, as he continued on, how beautiful the city actually was. The Nazis had taken much of the life out of it, it seemed, for the gardens were bare and the window boxes of many apartments were filled with dying plants instead of the flowers Thomas had seen in pictures. Passersby seemed defeated, their expressions as dark and worn as their clothing. The cafés were largely empty, except those bustling with Germans.

But beyond the signs of occupation, Thomas could see why people said Paris was one of the loveliest places in the world. His parents had come here on holiday before he was born, and his mother had always talked of it with nostalgic delight. The things she had mentioned—the beautiful old buildings, the ornate lampposts, the wide avenues, the meticulous landscaping—were still evident, and Thomas could imagine how the city must look in all its glory. “I finally made it to Paris, Mum,” he said softly as he crossed the river. He could see the Eiffel Tower off to the right in the distance. “Now I’m in need of a bit of luck.”

Unfortunately, four hours later, the sun was inching toward the horizon, and Thomas still hadn’t located the gallery, despite going up and down so many side streets that his head was beginning to spin. He had no backup plan, and he was mumbling to himself in frustration and looking down at the sidewalk when he found his path blocked.

He looked up, startled, and swallowed hard when he realized that he had nearly crashed into a Nazi soldier. The man was standing in full dress uniform in the middle of the sidewalk glowering at Thomas. He barked something in unintelligible German, and Thomas stared at him miserably, sure that he’d been caught. Was there a way to run? It seemed like the end of the line. The man said something else, seeming to wait for an answer, and finally, Thomas said in French, “I’m sorry. I don’t speak German.”

The man eyed him and then, surprisingly, switched to French too. “You French are imbeciles. Don’t you know German will be your national language soon enough?”

Thomas was too startled to reply right away. It took a few seconds to register that the man hadn’t stopped him because he believed he was an RAF pilot. He believed him to be a Parisian. “Right,” Thomas finally managed to say in French. He knew his accent was lousy, but he suspected the German wouldn’t notice, since his own accent was even worse. “Excuse me.”

The man snorted. “Now, as I was asking, where are you going?”

Thomas hesitated. “To an art gallery.”

The man looked him up and down. “What sort of art gallery?”

“One that specializes in ballet-themed art.” Thomas felt foolish.

“You? A laborer? What could your business there possibly be?”

“I’ve been, um, hired to clean it and help them hang some paintings.”

“You waste your time with ballet and art in the middle of the war?” The soldier was still blocking his path. “And you call yourself a man?”

“It’s only a job. I’m hungry and out of work.”

The soldier looked him up and down again with an expression of disgust. “Well, you are heading in the wrong direction.”

Thomas didn’t say anything.

After a moment, the soldier sighed and pointed to a street two blocks behind Thomas. “La Ballerine is just there. Rue Amélie. Midway down. I’d better not catch you wandering around after curfew.”

“No, you certainly won’t.”

“Well?” The soldier still hadn’t moved. “Aren’t you going to thank me for my help?”

“Thank you,” Thomas muttered, hating himself a little for being cowed by the Nazi bastard.

“In German,” the man said with a smirk.

Thomas searched his memory and managed to spit out one of the only German words he knew. “Danke.”

The soldier looked pleased. He smiled icily and stepped aside. Thomas hurried away without looking back, a foul taste in his mouth. That had been a narrow miss.

A few minutes later, Thomas’s heart lurched in gratitude as he passed a doorway with a plaque that identified it as La Ballerine. The doors and windows were pasted over with paper, and he wondered if the place was even open, but it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going there anyhow. To the left of the shop was an apartment building with a huge red door, just as Harry had described.

Thomas swallowed hard and hurried past the building. He circled the block twice, just in case the Nazi soldier was following him. On his third loop, finally confident he hadn’t been tailed, he ducked into the shadows and, glancing around once more, pushed the red door open. He had expected that it might be locked, but luck was seemingly on his side as he tumbled into a dimly lit hallway with a broad spiral staircase leading up at least five flights. He paused and drew a deep breath. Harry had said the man with the limp lived on the first floor, but he had never specified which apartment, and now Thomas wasn’t sure what to do.

There was a discarded, rickety-looking chair in the corner near the front door, and as Thomas stood in the hall paralyzed with indecision, he suddenly realized how very exhausted he was. He hadn’t eaten in more than a day, since his carefully rationed parcel from Claude and Henriette had run out, and walking for three days straight without a safe place to rest had taken its toll. His ankle was throbbing, and he felt parched and shaky. “No, Thomas,” he said to himself sternly. “You’ve come all this way. Hold it together for a little longer, at least.” But the chair in the corner looked so inviting, and after a moment, he sank gratefully down, relieved to be off his feet, if only for a moment.

“Think, Thomas,” he murmured, fighting off the tide of sleep that was threatening to roll in. The encounter with the Nazi soldier had spiked his adrenaline, and now that his fear was receding, he felt more depleted than ever. “Think, lad. There’s got to be a way to find Harry’s man.”

He was startled, a moment later, to hear the click of an apartment door opening across from where he sat. Could it be the man with the limp? But the figure who appeared in the doorway was an ancient, tiny woman bundled in a woolly sweater over a frayed dress.

“Can I help you?” she asked in French, looking Thomas up and down suspiciously.

“Oh, no, thank you, madame,” he replied, speaking slowly and trying his best to speak French without a telltale British accent.

“Pardon?” The woman cupped a hand to her ear, and Thomas realized she was deaf or nearly so.

“I’m just waiting for a friend, madame.” He raised his voice and then immediately felt far too exposed as it echoed through the building. She still looked skeptical.

“I am the concierge,” she said. “I know everyone in this building, and none of them would have a friend in such foul clothing. Be on your way, vagrant, or I will call the authorities.”