“Yes.” Liv tapped the photo. “My grandmother is Edith Thierry. She brought me here to Reims this week.”

“But the woman in the picture, she couldn’t possibly be alive, madame. She’d be well over one hundred years old, I think.”

“Ninety-nine, actually, which would have made her nineteen in this photo. I’m just—I’m looking for answers. I was hoping I might find them here.”

He still looked doubtful, but he nodded. “Let me show you to a table, and I will see if I can find Jean-Pierre Rousseau. He has been here for many years. Perhaps he knows some history. I will check.”

“Thank you so much.”

The waiter smiled as he led her to a seat. “De rien. I hope you find what you are looking for.”

Ten minutes later, Liv was sipping a glass of Mo?t & Chandon brut and rereading the story of the brasserie’s history on the menu when an older man, perhaps in his late seventies, with gray hair, dressed in a shirt and tie, approached. “Excuse me,” he said in perfect English. “You are the young woman looking to speak to someone about the history of the brasserie?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Liv rose to her feet, but he gestured for her to sit back down.

“Please, I will join you, if that is all right.” He pulled out a chair. “I am Jean-Pierre Rousseau. I manage the dining room.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Rousseau. I’m Liv Thierry Kent,” Liv said, extending her hand.

“Ah, so you are a Thierry. That is what Jean-Marc thought you’d said. And you have some family connection to the Brasserie Moulin?”

“I think my grandmother, Edith Thierry, is the one who owned the brasserie during the Second World War along with her husband, Edouard. Is there any chance you knew them?”

He shook his head. “I’ve been here only since the 1960s. But my father was here during the forties. He worked for the Thierrys.”

“Your father?” Liv leaned forward. “Is he still around? Could I speak with him?”

Monsieur Rousseau shook his head. “Oh, how I wish. My father died of a heart attack many years ago, when he was just fifty. But when I was young, he used to tell me some stories of the war, of his time here.”

“Like what? Did he talk of the Thierrys?”

“Yes, of course. He liked them very much. I see you reading the menu, and so you must know they were involved with the Resistance. But do you know how vital they were? The German officers who came here would drink very much—the bartenders were always pouring them free drinks—and they would say things they shouldn’t have. The Thierrys and their staff eavesdropped. In fact, my father once overheard a German lieutenant speaking of the imminent arrests of the leaders of a small Resistance cell operating here in Champagne, and he was able to get word, through the Thierrys, to Count Robert-Jean de Vogüé, who warned them. They disappeared before the Germans could get them.”

“Who was Count Robert-Jean de Vogüé?”

Monsieur Rousseau chuckled. “You are familiar with the Mo?t & Chandon champagne house?”

Liv glanced at her glass. “Of course.”

“Well, de Vogüé was the head of that house, the largest one at the time. A very important man, you understand, and one whom the Germans treated with respect when they first arrived here, because he was so influential with the other houses.” Monsieur Rousseau leaned forward conspiratorially, his eyes twinkling. “He also was one of the people in charge of the Resistance in the eastern part of France.”

“Wait, the head of Mo?t & Chandon was in charge of the Resistance?”

“No one was who they appeared to be in those days, mademoiselle. The Thierrys seemed to be collaborators, for example, so who would have thought that they were actually working with de Vogüé to undermine the Germans? At Piper-Heidsieck, the owners were hiding guns. At Krug, they were hiding pilots.” He tapped the base of Liv’s glass and added, “This champagne represents history, my dear. Heroism. Bravery. The people behind these wines helped save France.”

Liv stared at the hundreds of tiny bubbles racing from the bottom of her glass to the surface. “And the Thierrys? They were part of this?”

“Mais oui. They were at the center of it.”

“What happened to them? Do you know?”

Monsieur Rousseau shrugged. “Perhaps if your grandmother is indeed the same Edith Thierry, you know more than I do. You see, after the war, people in town did not immediately understand that the Thierrys had been working with the Resistance. Many still thought they had allied with the Germans, and they were hated for it. I understand that Madame Thierry left while the war was still ongoing, and Monsieur Thierry left town soon after the liberation. The brasserie was closed for a while before it was purchased by the Bouchert family, and by then the town knew the Thierrys had been heroes. But they never returned.”

“They survived the war, though?” Liv asked. “I mean, obviously my grandmother did, but my dad never knew his father. I always thought perhaps he had died during the war.”

“No, they survived. But many around them did not. I do remember my father saying that Madame Thierry’s dearest friend was shot by the Germans for being a résistante. My father thought it strange because she’d had a paramour who was allied with the Germans, but who knows? Perhaps she was stealing information from him, too. As I said, no one was who they appeared to be in those days. It was around that time that Madame Thierry left, I think. My father always assumed Monsieur Thierry had eventually gone to join her. In any case, isn’t it extraordinary to think of all the everyday people who risked their lives for France? If you are right about who your grandmother is, madame, she is one of those heroes.”