“Why are we here?” Madame Fournier asked tiredly.

Vianne stepped forward. She had never felt completely comfortable around some of the women, many of whom had disliked Vianne when she moved here at fourteen. When Vianne had “caught” Antoine—the best-looking young man in town—they’d liked her even less. Those days were long past, of course, and now Vianne was friendly with these women and taught their children and frequented their shops, but even so, the pains of adolescence left a residue of discomfort. “I have received a list of French prisoners of war from Carriveau. I am sorry—terribly sorry—to tell you that your husbands—and mine, and Rachel’s—are on the list. I am told they will not be coming home.”

She paused, allowing the women to react. Grief and loss transformed the faces around her. Vianne knew the pain mirrored her own. Even so, it was difficult to watch, and she found her eyes misting again. Rachel stepped close, took her hand.

“I got us postcards,” Vianne said. “Official ones. So we can write to our men.”

“How did you get so many postcards?” Madame Fournier asked, wiping her eyes.

“She asked her German for a favor,” said Hélène Ruelle, the baker’s wife.

“I did not! And he’s not my German,” Vianne said. “He is a soldier who has requisitioned my home. Should I just let the Germans have Le Jardin? Just walk away and have nothing? Every house or hotel in town with a spare room has been taken by them. I am not special in this.”

More tsking and murmurs. Some women nodded; others shook their heads.

“I would have killed myself before I let one of them move into my house,” Hélène said.

“Would you, Hélène? Would you really?” Vianne said. “And would you kill your children first or throw them out into the street to survive on their own?”

Hélène looked away.

“They have taken over my hotel,” a woman said. “And they are gentlemen, for the most part. A bit crude, perhaps. Wasteful.”

“Gentlemen.” Hélène spat the word. “We are pigs to slaughter. You will see. Pigs who put up no fight at all.”

“I haven’t seen you at my butcher shop recently,” Madame Fournier said to Vianne in a judgmental voice.

“My sister goes for me,” Vianne said. She knew this was the point of their disapproval; they were afraid that Vianne would get—and take—special privileges that they would be denied. “I would not take food—or anything—from the enemy.” She felt suddenly as if she were back in school, being bullied by the popular girls.

“Vianne is trying to help,” Rachel said sternly enough to shut them up. She took the postcards from Vianne and began handing them out.

Vianne took a seat and stared down at her own blank postcard.

She heard the chicken-scratching of other pencils on other postcards and slowly, she began to write.

My beloved Antoine,

We are well. Sophie is thriving, and even with

so many chores, we found some time

this summer to spend by the river. We—I—think

of you with every breath and pray

you are well. Do not worry about us,

and come home.

Je t’aime, Antoine.

Her lettering was so small she wondered if he would even be able to read it.

Or if he would get it.

Or if he was alive.

For God’s sake, she was crying.

Rachel moved in beside her, laid a hand on her shoulder. “We all feel it,” she said quietly.

Moments later, the women rose one by one. Wordlessly, they shuffled forward and gave Vianne their postcards.

“Don’t let them hurt your feelings,” Rachel said. “They’re just scared.”

“I’m scared, too,” Vianne said.

Rachel pressed her postcard to her chest, her fingers splayed across the small square of paper as if she needed to touch each corner. “How can we not be?”

*   *   *

Afterward, when they returned to Le Jardin, Beck’s motorcycle with the machine-gun-mounted sidecar was parked in the grass outside the gate.

Rachel turned to her. “Do you want us to come in with you?”

Vianne appreciated the worry in Rachel’s gaze, and she knew that if she asked for help she would get it, but how was she to be helped?

“No, merci. We are fine. He has probably forgotten something and will soon leave again. He is rarely here these days.”

“Where is Isabelle?”

“A good question. She sneaks out every Friday morning before the sunrise.” She leaned closer, whispered, “I think she is meeting a boy.”

“Good for her.”

To that, Vianne had no answer.

“Will he mail the postcards for us?” Rachel asked.

“I hope so.” Vianne stared at her friend a moment longer. Then she said, “Well, we will know soon enough,” and led Sophie into the house. Once inside, she instructed Sophie to go upstairs to read. Her daughter was used to such directives, and she didn’t mind. Vianne tried to keep her daughter and Beck separated as much as possible.

He was seated at the dining room table with papers spread out in front of him. At her entrance, he looked up. A drop of ink fell from the tip of his fountain pen, landed in a blue starburst on the white sheet of paper in front of him. “Madame. Most excellent. I am pleased you are returned.”

She moved forward cautiously, holding the packet of postcards tightly. They’d been tied up with a scrap of twine. “I … have some postcards here … written by friends in town … to our husbands … but we don’t know where to send them. I hoped … perhaps you could help us.”

She shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, feeling acutely vulnerable.

“Of course, Madame. I would be pleased to do this favor for you. Although it will take much time and research to accomplish.” He rose politely. “As it happens, I am now concocting a list for my superiors at the Kommandantur. They need to know the names of some of the teachers at your school.”

“Oh,” she said, uncertain as to why he would tell her this. He never spoke of his work. Of course, they didn’t speak often about anything.

“Jews. Communists. Homosexuals. Freemasons. Jehovah’s Witnesses. Do you know these people?”

“I am Catholic, Herr Captain, as you know. We do not speak of such things at school. I hardly know who are homosexuals and Freemasons, at any rate.”

“Ah. So you know the others.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I am unclear. My pardons. I would appreciate it most sternly if you would let me know the names of the teachers in your school who are Jewish or communist.”

“Why do you need their names?”

“It is clerical, merely. You know us Germans: we are list makers.” He smiled and pulled out a chair for her.

Vianne stared down at the blank paper on the table; then at the postcards in her hand. If Antoine received one, he might write back. She might know at last if he was alive. “This is not secret information, Herr Captain. Anyone can give you these names.”

He moved in close to her. “With some effort, Madame, I believe I can find your husband’s address and mail a package for you, also. Would this be sanguine?”

“‘Sanguine’ is not the right word, Herr Captain. You mean to ask me if it would be all right.” She was stalling and she knew it. Worse, she was pretty sure that he knew it.

“Ah. Thank you so much for tutoring me in your beautiful language. My apologies.” He offered her a pen. “Do not worry, Madame. It is clerical, merely.”

Vianne wanted to say that she wouldn’t write down any names, but what would be the point? It was easy enough for him to get this information in town. Everyone knew whose names belonged on the list. And Beck could throw her out of her own house for such a defiance—and what would she do then?

She sat down and picked up the pen and began to write down names. It wasn’t until the end of the list that she paused and lifted the pen tip from the paper. “I’m done,” she said in a soft voice.