He was getting meaner. Angrier. The Allied forces had landed in southern France and begun liberating towns. The Germans were losing the war, and Von Richter seemed hell-bent on making Vianne pay for it.

She stripped and washed in tepid water. She scrubbed until her skin was mottled and red, and still she didn’t feel clean. She never felt clean.

When she could stand no more, she dried off and redressed in her nightgown, adding a robe over it. Tying it at the waist, she left the bathroom, carrying her candle.

Sophie was in the living room, waiting for her. She sat on the last good piece of furniture in the room—the divan—with her knees drawn together and her hands clasped. The rest of the furniture had been requisitioned or burned.

“What are you doing up so late?”

“I could ask you the same question, but I don’t really need to, do I?”

Vianne tightened the belt on her robe. It was a nervous habit, something to do with her hands. “Let’s go to bed.”

Sophie looked up at her. At almost fourteen, Sophie’s face had begun to mature. Her eyes were black against her pale skin, her lashes lush and long. A poor diet had thinned Sophie’s hair, but it still hung in ringlets. She pursed her full lips. “Really, Maman? How long must we pretend?” The sadness—and the anger—in those beautiful eyes was heartbreaking. Vianne apparently had hidden nothing from this child who’d lost her childhood to war.

What was the right thing for a mother to say to her nearly grown daughter about the ugliness in the world? How could she be honest? How could Vianne expect her daughter to judge her less harshly than she judged herself?

Vianne sat down beside Sophie. She thought about their old life—laughter, kisses, family suppers, Christmas mornings, lost baby teeth, first words.

“I’m not stupid,” Sophie said.

“I have never thought you were. Not for a moment.” She drew in a breath and let it out. “I only wanted to protect you.”

“From the truth?”

“From everything.”

“There’s no such thing,” Sophie said bitterly. “Don’t you know that by now? Rachel is gone. Sarah is dead. Grandpère is dead. Tante Isabelle is…” Tears filled her eyes. “And Papa … when did we last hear from him? A year? Eight months? He’s probably dead, too.”

“Your father is alive. So is your aunt. I’d feel it if they were gone.” She put a hand over her heart. “I’d know it here.”

“Your heart? You’d feel it in your heart?”

Vianne knew that Sophie was being shaped by this war, roughened by fear and desperation into a sharper, more cynical version of herself, but still it was hard to see in such sharp detail.

“How can you just … go to him? I see the bruises.”

“That’s my war,” Vianne said quietly, ashamed almost more than she could stand.

“Tante Isabelle would have strangled him in his sleep.”

“Oui,” she agreed. “Isabelle is a strong woman. I am not. I am just … a mother trying to keep her children safe.”

“You think we want you to save us this way?”

“You’re young,” she said, her shoulders slumping in defeat. “When you are a mother yourself…”

“I won’t be a mother,” she said.

“I’m sorry to have disappointed you, Sophie.”

“I want to kill him,” Sophie said after a moment.

“Me, too.”

“We could hold a pillow over his head while he sleeps.”

“You think I have not dreamed of doing it? But it is too dangerous. Beck already disappeared while living in this house. To have a second officer do the same? They would turn their attention on us, which we don’t want.”

Sophie nodded glumly.

“I can stand what Von Richter does to me, Sophie. I couldn’t stand losing you or Daniel or being sent away from you. Or seeing you hurt.”

Sophie didn’t look away. “I hate him.”

“So do I,” Vianne said quietly. “So do I.”

*   *   *

“It is hot out today. I was thinking it would be a good day for swimming,” Vianne said with a smile.

The uproar was immediate and unanimous.

Vianne guided the children out of the orphanage classroom, keeping them tucked in close as they walked down the cloisters. They were passing Mother Superior’s office when the door opened.

“Madame Mauriac,” Mother said, smiling. “Your little gaggle looks happy enough to burst into song.”

“Not on a day this hot, Mother.” She linked her arm through Mother’s. “Come to the pond with us.”

“A thoroughly lovely idea on a September day.”

“Single file,” Vianne said to the children as they reached the main road. The children immediately fell into line. Vianne started them off on a song and they picked it up instantly, singing loudly as they clapped and bounced and skipped.

Did they even notice the bombed-out buildings they passed? The smoking piles of rubble that had once been homes? Or was destruction the ordinary view of their childhoods, unremarkable, unnoticeable?

Daniel—as always—stayed with Vianne, clinging to her hand. He was like that lately, afraid to be apart from her for long. Sometimes it bothered her, even broke her heart. She wondered if there was a part of him, deep down, that remembered all that he had lost—the mother, the father, the sister. She worried that when he slept, curled up against her side, he was Ari, the boy left behind.

Vianne clapped her hands. “Children, you are to cross the street in an orderly fashion. Sophie, you are my leader.”

The children crossed the street carefully and then raced up the hill to the wide, seasonal pond that was one of Vianne’s favorite places. Antoine had first kissed her at this very spot.

At the water’s edge, the students started stripping down. In no time, they were in the water.

She looked down at Daniel. “Do you want to go play in the water with your sister?”

Daniel chewed his lower lip, watching the children splash in the still, blue water. “I don’t know…”

“You don’t have to swim if you don’t want to. You could just get your feet wet.”

He frowned, his round cheeks bunched in consideration. Then he let go of her hand and walked cautiously toward Sophie.

“He still clings to you,” Mother said.

“He has nightmares, too.” Vianne was about to say, Lord knows I do, when nausea hit. She mumbled, “Excuse me,” and ran through the tall grass to a copse of trees, where she bent over and vomited. There was almost nothing in her stomach, but the dry heaves went on and on, leaving her feeling weak and exhausted.

She felt Mother’s hand on her back, rubbing her, soothing her.

Vianne straightened. She tried to smile. “I’m sorry. I don’t—” She stopped. The truth washed over her. She turned to Mother. “I threw up yesterday morning.”

“Oh, no, Vianne. A baby?”

Vianne didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream at God. She had prayed and prayed for another child to grow in her womb.

But not now.

Not his.

*   *   *

Vianne hadn’t slept in a week. She felt rickety and tired and terrified. And her morning sickness had gotten even worse.

Now she sat at the edge of the bed, looking down at Daniel. At five, he was outgrowing his pajamas again; skinny wrists and ankles stuck out from the frayed sleeves and pant legs. Unlike Sophie, he never complained about being hungry or reading by candlelight or the terrible gray bread their rations provided. He remembered nothing else.

“Hey, Captain Dan,” she said, pushing the damp black curls out of his eyes. He rolled onto his back and grinned up at her, showing off his missing front teeth.

“Maman, I dreamed there was candy.”

The door to the bedroom banged open. Sophie appeared, breathing hard. “Come quick, Maman.”

“Oh, Sophie, I am—”

“Now.”

“Come on, Daniel. She looks serious.”

He surged at her exuberantly. He was too big for her to carry, so she hugged him tightly and then withdrew. She retrieved the only clothes that fit him—a pair of canvas pants that had been made from painter’s cloth she’d found in the barn and a sweater she’d knitted with precious blue wool. When he was dressed, she took his hand and led him into the living room. The front door was standing open.