Papa, of course, called that sort of thinking ridiculous. Hanukkah only seemed early because the twenty-fifth day of Kislev on the Hebrew calendar fell sooner than usual on the calendar the rest of the world used. “Hanukkah never changes,” he said firmly, and Charlotte resisted the urge to make a face, for Papa never seemed to believe that anything changed. In fact, even with the dire news reports about the treatment of Jews in Germany and Poland, the ones Charlotte’s friends whispered about at school, he simply pursed his lips and said, “But this is France. We are French now. Nothing will alter that.”

But was that true? Most of the time, Charlotte didn’t think much about religion at all. Lately, however, some of the other children had been calling her names, even saying that she had a big nose, which was ridiculous, because her nose was the exact same size as Thérèse Petit’s, and everyone knew Thérèse Petit was the most beautiful girl in school, and a Catholic at that. Still, Jean-Marc Thibodaux in particular always seemed to have an insult ready for her. He called her “Dirty Yid” or told her to go back to where she came from. His friends had laughed when she’d looked at him blankly the first time and said she’d been born right here in Paris, just like him. “But your parents weren’t,” he’d sneered. “My papa says you don’t belong here.”

So that was it; the words were coming from her schoolmates’ parents. It made Charlotte feel a bit better and a bit worse at the same time. Better because this wasn’t really about her. Worse because it wasn’t fair that she had to be the face of a religion she barely practiced. It wasn’t as if she went around thinking about the Torah all the time.

“Ignore them,” Micheline whispered when it was clear Charlotte was on the verge of tears. “They’re just pigs. You know that. Groin groin.” Her friend’s oinking always made Charlotte laugh, and she knew Micheline was right. Still, it didn’t remove the sting.

“Why do we have to be Jewish anyhow?” she asked her parents over dinner on the first night of Hanukkah. She knew her question would upset them, but it would be so much easier to be Christian. Why couldn’t they see that?

“Hush, Charlotte,” Papa said. “Don’t speak of things you don’t understand.”

Charlotte felt the familiar burn that she experienced every time her father treated her like a child. “How can I understand if you never talk to me?”

Her father stared at her and then seemed to soften. “You should be playing with dolls, not worrying about politics and religion.”

“I haven’t played with a doll in years. I’m almost eleven.”

“Reuven,” Maman said sharply. “Talk to her.”

Papa sighed, took off his glasses, and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was his look of defeat, Charlotte knew, the one he sometimes wore after arguments with Maman. “Charlotte, being Jewish is something to be proud of, not something to be ashamed of.”

“Then why do my classmates mock me?”

Charlotte could see him flinch, but he answered calmly. “Because they are ignorant. And cruelty is the weapon of the ignorant.”

“But what if I don’t want to be Jewish?” Charlotte persisted.

Her parents exchanged glances filled with sadness. “My dear,” Papa said at last, “your mother is Jewish, and so according to our faith, you are Jewish too. It’s a beautiful part of you. It will forever be.”

Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, but she was out of words. She didn’t want to change who she was, not really. It was just that she hated to be different. If only she could have blond ringlets and parents who invited the local priest over for supper, like Thérèse Petit.

After she helped wash the dishes and lit the first candle on the menorah with Maman and Papa, Charlotte stepped out onto the small terrace of their apartment, which offered a sliver of a view of the top of the Eiffel Tower. It was her favorite place in the world, for when she drew the curtains closed behind her, she found some privacy. Besides, she liked to imagine that the tip of the tower was actually the highest turret of a castle and that she was a princess who would one day return to her rightful place on the throne. Not that she would ever breathe a word of that daydream; she realized how childish it would make her sound.

“Good evening.”

Charlotte jumped, startled by the voice that came from the next terrace over. She was always alone out here, so it hadn’t occurred to her to look around. She blinked into the darkness until she saw a young woman with pin-curled auburn hair and crimson lips standing against the railing outside the apartment next door.

“Hello?” Charlotte answered tentatively. She’d seen the woman before; she was beautiful and very fashionable. She was perhaps twenty or twenty-five, and she was always wearing pretty, tailored dresses that showed off her narrow waist and high-heeled shoes that Charlotte would undoubtedly trip in. She had an accent, but when Charlotte had asked her parents about it, her father had said that it didn’t matter where the woman was from, because she was French now, just like them.

“It’s a lovely night,” the woman said. She wasn’t looking at Charlotte; she was gazing at the Eiffel Tower. “It’s a bit cold, of course. But there’s something bracing about the fresh air, isn’t there? It snaps you out of a feeling of malaise.”

How had the woman known that Charlotte was out here feeling sorry for herself?

After a moment, the woman spoke again. “I’m Ruby. I live next door to you. But then, you can probably see that.”

“I’m Charlotte,” Charlotte replied, feeling suddenly grown-up. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, as well.” There was a pause, and then the woman asked gently in her strange accent, “Is there something you’d like to talk about?”

“Pardon?”

“It’s just that I couldn’t help noticing that you seem upset. Unless you’re sniffling because you’ve caught a cold. In which case, excuse me for intruding.”

Charlotte was grateful that the darkness would hide her embarrassment. “No. I’m fine. Thank you.”

“Well, then, perhaps you can help me with something.”

“But I’m only ten,” Charlotte blurted out. “Well, almost eleven.” An adult had never asked for her help before.

Ruby laughed. “That’s all right. What I need most of all is advice. You see, I’m American.”

“American?” Charlotte was momentarily dazzled. She’d never met an American before; the immigrants she knew were from eastern Europe. “But America is so far away.”

“Indeed it is. I fell in love with a Frenchman and followed him across the ocean to live here. He has lived in this building for a long time. Perhaps you know him?”

“Yes, of course, Monsieur Benoit. Well, my maman and papa know him.”

“I see. Well, Charlotte, this is my problem, and it makes me rather sad: sometimes, people treat me differently because I’m American. They judge me before they know me.”

It was almost exactly what Charlotte had been trying to explain to Papa! To think that the glamorous woman next door had the same sort of problem! “I suppose that’s rather silly of them,” she said slowly.

“How so?”

“Well,” Charlotte said, struggling to put her thoughts into words. “The fact that you are American doesn’t change who you are on the inside. It is just one piece of you.”

“Hmm. That’s quite a good point. But what do you think I should do about the way I’m feeling?”

Charlotte thought about this. “You can’t always change other people’s minds. But you can change whether or not you listen to them, can’t you?”

“Why, yes,” Ruby said. “You know, Charlotte, I think I was right. You are very wise indeed. I will think about what you said.”

“Okay,” Charlotte said, suddenly shy again. She wanted to ask Ruby many more questions. What was America like? Where had she learned to speak French so well? What did she think of Paris? Was she worried about the war that everyone said was coming to France? But Ruby was already moving toward the door of her terrace, and Charlotte realized with a great swell of disappointment that she had missed her chance.

“Thank you, Charlotte,” Ruby said. “I hope we talk again soon.” And then she was gone, leaving Charlotte alone to overlook the moonlit courtyard.

Only later did Charlotte realize that her kitchen window was open a crack, and that if Ruby had already been on her terrace, she would have heard Charlotte’s whole conversation with her parents. The thought made Charlotte feel a bit silly at first, but by the time she went to sleep that night, she felt a little less alone.

CHAPTER FOUR

January 1940

It was icy cold and rainy when Thomas Clarke arrived at the Little Rissington airfield in the Cotswolds for the first time. Not a very good welcome, he thought. The conditions at Desford, where he’d learned to fly DH 82 Tiger Moths, hadn’t been much better, but Little Rissi was supposed to be the real deal, the place where he would earn his RAF wings, where he would learn to fly fighters. He had imagined, somehow, wide-open, verdant fields and babbling blue streams. Instead, the world here seemed to be a study in all the shades of brown and gray, with the wind turning the raindrops into vicious projectiles. By the time he and Harry Cormack made it inside the brick building at the front of the complex, their brand-new RAF blues were drenched straight through.