“Oh, what the heck, it is a cold morning. Maybe a game of tag is what we need to get our blood running.”

A roar of approval filled the room. Vianne barely had time to grab her coat before she was swept out of the classroom on a tide of laughing children.

They had been outside only a few moments when Vianne heard the grumble of automobiles coming toward the school.

The children didn’t notice—they only noticed aeroplanes these days, it seemed—and went on with their play.

Vianne walked down to the end of the building and peered around the corner.

A black Mercedes-Benz roared up the dirt driveway, its fenders decorated with small swastika flags that flapped in the cold. Behind it was a French police car.

“Children,” Vianne said, rushing back to the courtyard, “come here. Stand by me.”

Two men rounded the corner and came into view. One she had never seen before—he was a tall, elegant, almost effete blond man wearing a long black leather coat and spit-shined boots. An iron cross decorated his stand-up collar. The other man she knew; he had been a policeman in Carriveau for years. Paul Jeauelere. Antoine had often remarked that he had a mean and cowardly streak.

“Madame Mauriac,” the French police officer said with an officious nod.

She didn’t like the look in his eyes. It reminded her of how boys sometimes looked at one another when they were about to bully a weaker child. “Bonjour, Paul.”

“We are here for some of your colleagues. There is nothing to concern you, Madame. You are not on our list.”

List.

“What do you want with my colleagues?” she heard herself asking, but her voice was almost inaudible, even though the children were silent.

“Some teachers will be dismissed today.”

“Dismissed? Why?”

The Nazi agent flicked his pale hand as if he were batting at a fly. “Jews and communists and Freemasons. Others,” he sneered, “who are no longer permitted to teach school or work in civil service or in the judiciary.”

“But—”

The Nazi nodded at the French policeman and the two turned as one and marched into the school.

“Madame Mauriac?” someone said, tugging on her sleeve.

“Maman?” Sophie said, whining. “They can’t do that, can they?”

“’Course they can,” Gilles said. “Damn Nazi bastards.”

Vianne should have disciplined him for his language, but she couldn’t think of anything except the list of names she’d given to Beck.

*   *   *

Vianne wrestled with her conscience for hours. She’d continued teaching for much of the day, although she couldn’t remember how. All that stuck in her mind was the look Rachel had given her as she walked out of the school with the other dismissed teachers. Finally, at noon, although they were already shorthanded at school, Vianne had asked another teacher to take over her classroom.

Now, she stood at the edge of the town square.

All the way here, she had planned what she would say, but when she saw the Nazi flag flying above the hôtel de ville, her resolve faltered. Everywhere she looked there were German soldiers, walking in pairs, or riding gorgeous, well-fed horses, or darting up the streets in shiny black Citröens. Across the square, a Nazi blew his whistle and used his rifle to force an old man to his knees.

Go, Vianne.

She walked up the stone steps to the closed oak doors, where a fresh-faced young guard stopped her and demanded to know her business.

“I am here to see Captain Beck,” she said.

“Ah.” The guard opened the door for her and pointed up the wide stone staircase, making the number two with his fingers.

Vianne stepped into the main room of the town hall. It was crowded with men in uniforms. She tried not to make eye contact with anyone as she hurried across the lobby to the stairs, which she ascended under the watchful eyes of the Führer, whose portrait took up much of the wall.

On the second floor, she found a man in uniform and she said to him, “Captain Beck, s’il vous plaît?”

“Oui, Madame.” He showed her to a door at the end of the hall and rapped smartly upon it. At a response from within, he opened the door for her.

Beck was seated behind an ornate black and gold desk—obviously taken from one of the grand homes in the area. Behind him a portrait of Hitler and a collection of maps were affixed to the walls. On his desk was a typewriter and a roneo machine. In the corner stood a pile of confiscated radios, but worst of all was the food. There were boxes and boxes of food, heaps of cured meats and wheels of cheese stacked against the back wall.

“Madame Mauriac,” he said, rising quickly. “What a most pleasant surprise.” He came toward her. “What may I do for you?”

“It’s about the teachers you fired at the school.”

“Not I, Madame.”

Vianne glanced at the open door behind them and took a step toward him, lowering her voice to say, “You told me the list of names was clerical in nature.”

“I am sorry. Truly. This is what I was told.”

“We need them at the school.”

“You being here, it is … dangerous perhaps.” He closed the small distance between them. “You do not want to draw attention to yourself, Madame Mauriac. Not here. There is a man…” He glanced at the door and stopped speaking. “Go, Madame.”

“I wish you hadn’t asked me.”

“As do I, Madame.” He gave her an understanding look. “Now, go. Please. You should not be here.”

Vianne turned away from Captain Beck—and all that food and the picture of the Führer—and left his office. On her way down the stairs, she saw how the soldiers observed her, smiling to one another, no doubt joking about another Frenchwoman courting a dashing German soldier who had just broken her heart. But it wasn’t until she stepped back out into the sunshine that she realized fully her mistake.

Several women were in the square, or near it, and they saw her step out of the Nazis’ lair.

One of the women was Isabelle.

Vianne hurried down the steps, toward Hélène Ruelle, the baker’s wife, who was delivering bread to the Kommandantur.

“Socializing, Madame Mauriac?” Hélène said archly as Vianne rushed past her.

Isabelle was practically running across the square toward her. With a defeated sigh, Vianne came to a standstill, waiting for her sister to reach her.

“What were you doing in there?” Isabelle demanded, her voice too loud, or maybe that was only to Vianne’s ears.

“They fired the teachers today. No. Not all of them, just the Jews and the Freemasons and the communists.” The memory welled up in her, made her feel sick. She remembered the quiet hallway and the confusion among the teachers who remained. No one knew what to do, how to defy the Nazis.

“Just them, huh?” Isabelle said, her face tightening.

“I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I meant to clarify. They didn’t fire all the teachers.” Even to her own ears it sounded a feeble excuse, so she shut up.

“And this says nothing to explain your presence at their headquarters.”

“I … thought Captain Beck could help us. Help Rachel.”

“You went to Beck for a favor?”

“I had to.”

“Frenchwomen do not ask Nazis for help, Vianne. Mon Dieu, you must know this.”

“I know,” Vianne said defiantly. “But…”

“But what?”

Vianne couldn’t hold it in anymore. “I gave him a list of names.”

Isabelle went very still. For an instant she seemed not to be breathing. The look she gave Vianne stung more than a slap across the face. “How could you do that? Did you give him Rachel’s name?”

“I d-didn’t know,” Vianne stammered. “How could I know? He said it was clerical.” She grabbed Isabelle’s hand. “Forgive me, Isabelle. Truly. I didn’t know.”

“It is not my forgiveness you need to seek, Vianne.”

Vianne felt a stinging, profound shame. How could she have been so foolish, and how in God’s name could she make amends? She glanced at her wristwatch. Classes would be ending soon. “Go to the school,” Vianne said. “Get Sophie, Sarah, and take them home. There’s something I need to do.”