“Well?” Henri said quietly, and in that single word, Isabelle heard the call to arms she’d been waiting for. “Will you distribute them?”

“Me?”

“We are communists and radicals,” Henri said. “They are already watching us. You are a girl. And a pretty one at that. No one would suspect you.”

Isabelle didn’t hesitate. “I’ll do it.”

The men started to thank her; Henri silenced them. “The printer is risking his life by writing these tracts, and someone is risking his or her life by typing them. We are risking our lives by bringing them here. But you, Isabelle, you are the one who will be caught distributing them—if you are caught. Make no mistake. This is not chalking a V on a poster. This is punishable by death.”

“I won’t get caught,” she said.

Henri smiled at that. “How old are you?”

“Almost nineteen.”

“Ah,” he said. “And how can one so young hide this from her family?”

“My family’s not the problem,” Isabelle said. “They pay no attention to me. But … there’s a German soldier billeted at my house. And I would have to break curfew.”

“It will not be easy. I understand if you are afraid.” Henri began to turn away.

Isabelle snatched the papers back from him. “I said I’d do it.”

*   *   *

Isabelle was elated. For the first time since the armistice, she wasn’t completely alone in her need to do something for France. The men told her about dozens of groups like theirs throughout the country, mounting a resistance to follow de Gaulle. The more they talked, the more excited she became at the prospect of joining them. Oh, she knew she should be afraid. (They told her often enough.)

But it was ridiculous—the Germans threatening death for handing out a few pieces of paper. She could talk her way out of it if she were caught; she was sure of it. Not that she would get caught. How many times had she sneaked out of a locked school or boarded a train without a ticket or talked her way out of trouble? Her beauty had always made it easy for her to break rules without reprisal.

“When we have more, how will we contact you?” Henri asked as he opened the door to let her leave.

She glanced down the street. “The apartment above Madame La Foy’s hat shop. Is it still vacant?”

Henri nodded.

“Open the curtains when you have papers. I’ll come by as soon as I can.”

“Knock four times. If we don’t answer, walk away,” he said. After a pause, he added, “Be careful, Isabelle.”

He shut the door between them.

Alone again, she looked down at her basket. Settled under a red-and-white-checked linen cloth were the tracts. On top lay the butcher-paper-wrapped ham hocks. It wasn’t much of a camouflage. She would need to figure out something better.

She walked down the alley and turned onto a busy street. The sky was darkening. She’d been with the men all day. The shops were closing up; the only people milling about were German soldiers and the few women who’d chosen to keep them company. The café tables out on the street were full of uniformed men eating the best food, drinking the best wines.

It took every ounce of nerve she had to walk slowly. The minute she was out of town, she started to run. As she neared the airfield, she was sweating and out of breath, but she didn’t slow. She ran all the way into her yard. With the gate clattering shut behind her, she bent forward, gasping hard, holding the stitch in her side, trying to catch her breath.

“M’mselle Rossignol, are you unwell?”

Isabelle snapped upright.

Captain Beck appeared beside her. Had he been there before her?

“Captain,” she said, working hard to still the racing of her heart. “A convoy went past … I … uh, rushed to get out of their way.”

“A convoy? I didn’t see that.”

“It was a while back. And I am … silly sometimes. I lost track of time, talking to a friend, and, well…” She gave him her prettiest smile and patted her butchered hair as if it mattered to her that she looked nice for him.

“How were the queues today?”

“Interminable.”

“Please, allow me to carry your basket inside.”

She looked down at her basket, saw the tiniest white paper corner visible under the linen cloth. “No, I—”

“Ah, I insist. We are gentlemen, you know.”

His long, well-manicured fingers closed around the willow handle. As he turned toward the house, she remained at his side. “I saw a large group gathering at the town hall this afternoon. What are the Vichy police doing here?”

“Ah. Nothing to concern you.” He waited at the front door for her to open it. She fumbled nervously with the center-mounted knob, turned it, and opened the door. Although he had every right to go in at will, he waited to be invited in, as if he were a guest.

“Isabelle, is that you? Where have you been?” Vianne rose from the divan.

“The queues were awful today.”

Sophie popped up from the floor by the fireplace, where she’d been playing with Bébé. “What did you get today?”

“Ham hocks,” Isabelle said, glancing worriedly at the basket in Beck’s hand.

“That’s all?” Vianne said. “What about the cooking oil?”

Sophie sank back to the rug on the floor, clearly disappointed.

“I will put the hocks in the pantry,” Isabelle said, reaching for the basket.

“Please, allow me,” Beck said. He was staring at Isabelle, watching her closely. Or maybe it only felt like that.

Vianne lit a candle and handed it to Isabelle. “Don’t waste it. Hurry.”

Beck was very gallant as he walked through the shadowy kitchen and opened the door to the cellar.

Isabelle went down first, lighting the way. The wooden steps creaked beneath her feet until she stepped down onto the hard-packed dirt floor and into the subterranean chill. The wooden shelves seemed to close in around them as Beck came up beside her. The candle flame sent light gamboling in front of them.

She tried to still the trembling in her hand as she reached for the paper-wrapped ham hocks. She placed them on the shelf beside their dwindling supplies.

“Bring up three potatoes and a turnip,” Vianne called down. Isabelle jumped a little at the sound.

“You seem nervous,” Beck said. “Is that the right word, M’mselle?”

The candle sputtered between them. “There were a lot of dogs in town today.”

“The Gestapo. They love their shepherds. There is no reason for this to concern you.”

“I am afraid … of big dogs. I was bitten once. As a child.”

Beck gave her a smile that was stretched out of shape by the light.

Don’t look at the basket. But it was too late. She saw a little more of the hidden papers sticking out.

She forced a smile. “You know us girls. Scared of everything.”

“That is not how I would describe you, M’mselle.”

She reached carefully for the basket and tugged it from his grasp. Without breaking eye contact, she set the basket on the shelf, beyond the candle’s light. When it was there, in the dark, she finally released her breath.

They stared at each other in uncomfortable silence.

Beck nodded. “And now I must away. I have only come here to pick up some papers for a meeting tonight.” He turned back for the steps and began climbing them.

Isabelle followed the captain up the narrow stairs. When she emerged into the kitchen, Vianne was standing there with her arms crossed, frowning.

“Where are the potatoes and a turnip?” Vianne asked.

“I forgot.”

Vianne sighed. “Go,” she said. “Get them.”

Isabelle turned and went back into the cellar. After she’d gathered up the potatoes and turnip, she went to the basket, lifted the candle to expose the basket to light. There it was: the tiny white triangle of paper, peeking out. She quickly withdrew the papers from the basket and shoved them into her panty girdle. Feeling the papers against her skin, she went upstairs, smiling.

*   *   *