“Un…deux…trois!” they called, swinging my arms rhythmically before lifting me off my feet. I hopped at just the right moment to take flight, springing into the air. Maman laughed. “You’re getting too big for this, Sara,” she chided me.

  “Never!” I protested, smiling back. I knew there was some truth in what she said—I wasn’t a baby anymore. But I still liked to play, and I wasn’t ready to give up our little games. I snatched a loaf of bread from her market basket and dashed off with it, holding the baguette aloft and hoping for a chase.

  “Come back here!” called Papa. But he didn’t run after me immediately. I could see him whispering to Maman, his brow furrowed. My mother nodded gravely at whatever he was saying, then whispered something back. I wondered what they were talking about. Perhaps Maman thought I shouldn’t be running around in my new dress? Or maybe what looked like concern was simply the two of them trying to keep a secret from me. I did have a birthday coming up in May—could they be figuring out the perfect gift?

  I studied them, heads together, and made a mental note to keep an eye out for other clues. That wouldn’t be hard to do, because I adored watching them. Theirs was a great love, but also a meeting of the minds. While doctors all over the world sought Papa’s advice on important medical matters, his most trusted confidante was not someone in the medical profession—it was Maman.

  Within a few minutes, Papa raced after me, all signs of whatever had been preoccupying him forgotten. I shrieked with excitement, ducking to hide behind a tree. Both of us kept darting out and laughing, our chase continuing merrily until Papa triumphantly reclaimed the baguette.

  As Papa caught his breath, I seized the moment to follow up on an idea I had had earlier. “Papa, you said it’s spring, yes? Can we go to the forest for a picnic?”

  “Not quite yet, my little bird,” he told me, his eyes sparkling. “But soon, I promise.”

  The Mernuit forest, near our home, was a dark and scary place, especially for us children. There were legends, going back centuries, about giant wolves that roamed the woods. Elderly people in my village were quick to warn me and my friends not to linger near the woods after dark, on account of wolves. To hear them tell it, these terrifying beasts would slip out unnoticed with the fog, prey on their victims, and leave as silently as they came. I didn’t know whether to believe this or not, but I came to view the forest as an ominous place much of the time.

  Except in springtime, when something magical happened in the forest. Going to see it was another family tradition—one I looked forward to every year.

  A few days later, I asked Papa for a picnic in the woods again. And again, and again, and again, until the day I got the answer I was hoping for.

  “Let’s ask your maman,” he said, smiling. It was finally time.

  We packed up a lunch basket. Nothing fancy—just some sandwiches, red wine for my parents, lemonade for me, and some fruit. Maman carefully folded a sky-blue picnic blanket with an embroidered border of pink roses. Then we walked deeper and deeper into the forest. The woods were less terrifying in the light of day, especially with both of my parents beside me. But I still kept a careful eye out for ferocious beasts, just in case.

  Happily, the sight that greeted us was not a menacing bank of fog. Or a hungry wolf.

  “Bluebells!” I cried, running into the purple vale as if greeting an old friend. The entire forest floor was in bloom, bursting forth in bright blue and violet hues. While my parents set out the picnic, I danced around in the glade. It was beautiful and fragrant beyond my wildest dreams.

  “It’s magical here,” I announced to Maman when I finally was able to tear myself away from playing princess among the fairy flowers. I collapsed in a happy heap next to her on the blanket.

  “It certainly feels that way,” she allowed. Her mathematical mind was often reluctant to acknowledge circumstances that could not be scientifically validated.

  “It is,” I insisted stubbornly.

  “She’s right, you know, Rose,” said my papa, topping off my mother’s wineglass. I grinned with pleasure that he was taking my side. “Bluebells aren’t usually found this far south. Clearly, these flowers were brought here by fairy magic. There’s simply no logical explanation.”

  “Ha! I knew it,” I cried with jubilation.

  Maman took a sip, raising her free hand in mock defeat. Then she set down her glass and sighed, gazing at me with admiration. “Look at our little girl, Max,” she said. “She’s getting so big!”

  Papa shook his head in protest. “She’s still our little bird, Rose.”

  Little bird. I quickly sprang to my feet at the sound of my father’s pet name for me. It was also our code for my favorite game.

  “Oh, Papa!” I said. “Can you make me fly?”

  “Of course,” he replied, getting to his feet and reaching out for me. “How high will you fly?”

  “As high as the sky!” I assured him. We locked eyes and I held his face in my hands, reveling in his attention. He was so strong, my papa. There was nothing he could not do.

  “And how fast will you go?” he asked.

  That was my cue to spread my arms wide as he lifted me up and began to swing me around in a wide circle.

  “As fast as a crow!” I proclaimed.

  “Then close your eyes…,” said Papa, swinging me around. I took a deep breath as I gained momentum. This was my next-to-favorite part—the anticipation that came as I whirled, still secure in his grasp, just barely.

  “…Time to rise!” he called, launching me high into the air.

  I kept my eyes tightly shut, feeling weightless as I soared into the air. I pictured myself as my father’s little bird, the wind catching my wings and lifting me triumphantly skyward. Landing was always a rude awakening for me, but never a painful one. My father was so gentle with his tosses that I never got hurt. Instead, I begged for more.

  I loved that game and how it belonged to just us, my father and me.

  I loved how it made me feel—happy and carefree as a bird.

  I loved knowing that even when he let go, I was completely protected and safe.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Summer 1940–Fall 1942

  “Sara, come take a look at this,” called Papa to me one morning.

  I was standing in our front hall, my book bag already on my shoulder and my hand on the doorknob. “Can you show me later?” I asked. “I’m going to be late for school.”

  “This will only take a moment,” Papa replied. “And it’s important. Look here and read what it says.”

  Impatiently, I glanced at the newspaper he was holding up. His hand was by the newspaper’s date, but I knew that wasn’t the part he was emphasizing. “France Surrenders to Germany,” I read aloud. “Papa, I know about that—we talked about it at dinner last night.” And every night, I thought. Of course there was a war going on—everyone knew that. But when Adolf Hitler and the German Nazi Party decided to invade France earlier that month, they took over our nightly family dinner conversations, too.

  “Yes, but there’s more,” said Papa, indicating a map that was printed under the headlines. “This is France. Point to where we live.”

  I did as I was told. Papa drew a red circle around the location on the map. “Very good,” he said. “Now, you see, there are two zones, and our village is located in the Unoccupied, or Free, Zone. This means we are very lucky. We should be grateful that our home is not in the Occupied Zone.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because the Occupied Zone is controlled by Germany. There are, and may continue to be, many changes and disruptions there as a result. But here our lives should continue more or less as normal.”

  I glanced at the newspaper again, confused. “I thought France surrendered. Doesn’t that mean Germany runs everything now?”

  He shook his head. “No, that’s why there are two zones. Our zone is controlled by a new French government, based in the town of Vichy, not terribly far from here. The new government is working with the Germans but sets its own rules for our zone. I just wanted you to know that, because the things one might see and hear in the streets can be confusing. I want you to keep focusing on your studies and not spend too much time worrying about the war. And if you have any questions, you can always come to me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Can I go to school now?”

  Papa smiled. “You may.”

  On my way to school, I rode my scooter past soldiers, who were an increasing presence in our town. Is that what Papa meant? I wondered. I noticed the big red banners with the black-on-white twisted crosses called swastikas. They represented the Nazi Party, and they had become omnipresent in recent months. Perhaps they, too, were what Papa was referring to. And I saw people greeting each other on the streets with a stiff-armed salute and cries of “Heil Hitler!” instead of “Good morning.” It was all a little strange and unnerving. But if this was what Papa was talking about, it meant nothing. And I was inclined to believe him. After all, Papa was an educated man and could speak with authority on any subject. To my mind, he was incapable of being wrong about anything.

  A couple of weeks later, I came home from school one day and was surprised to find Maman sitting at the piano. Usually she wouldn’t be home from teaching at this hour. I slid onto the bench next to her.

  “Shall we play a duet?” I suggested, arranging my hands on the keyboard.

  When she didn’t respond, I turned my head and looked up at her.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  Maman dabbed at her eyes but did not answer. Reluctantly, she handed me a piece of paper. I read it over quickly, then looked back at her with confusion.

  “They’re firing you from the university?” I asked. “But—why?”

  Maman burst into tears and ran out of the room.

  When Papa came home from work, I asked him to explain.

  “This isn’t about anything she did or didn’t do,” he told me. “It’s the government. Recently, they passed laws forbidding us Jews to work in certain jobs. Including teaching.”

  “But that shouldn’t affect Maman. We live in the Unoccupied Zone,” I pointed out.

  Papa sighed. “It’s complicated, my little bird,” he said, looking more tired than usual. “The Nazis have been very successful in blaming Jews for all the troubles throughout Europe,” he explained. “They have convinced German citizens to believe these anti-Jewish sentiments, and their message has taken hold throughout France.”

  In other words, the Nazi soldiers and salutes and banners in the streets weren’t the worst of it. They signified something far more insidious than I had realized. Something that was spreading, despite what we had been told about the safety that could be found in the so-called Free Zone. And despite how obvious these lies were, they seemed to be working. Otherwise Maman would still have her job at the university. I wished with all my heart that people would come to their senses and see reason.

  But, like anything, I got used to it. War news was everywhere, but for many months I did my best to tune it out. I could still go more or less wherever I wanted on my bike and scooter and play with my friends like a regular kid. Until one day, almost two years later, when a letter arrived in our mailbox.

  “Papa, look!” I carried it in to him. “It’s from Aunt Simone, in Paris.”

  “Oh?” He exchanged a quick glance with Maman before opening it.

  “Can I read it after you, Papa?” I asked. I was very fond of Papa’s sister and her family. Her son, my cousin Marc, was only a year younger than me.

  “It seems like they’re trying to come to the Free Zone,” he told me and Maman.

  “That’s wonderful!” I replied. I did the math in my head. I knew we’d last seen them on my seventh birthday, in May 1937. And I had just turned twelve, so…more than five years? That didn’t seem possible. “They can stay with us, can’t they?”

  “Of course,” said Maman. “If they’re able to travel, they’re always welcome here.”

  Papa handed the letter to me.

  le 20 juin, 1942

  My dear brother,

  I wish I was writing to you in happier times. I am sure you have followed the situation in the Occupied Zone in the news, but I must confess that it is far worse than is being reported. We are required to wear yellow cloth stars on our clothing so we can be identified as Jews upon sight. Henri and I have both lost our jobs, money is very tight, and Marc can no longer attend school. Worst of all, we have been hearing rumors of Jewish families being rounded up and removed from their homes—a terrifying thought. We are trying to leave Paris in the hopes of avoiding this fate. I will let you know when we have our paperwork and finances in order to travel. We don’t want to impose upon you, Rose, and Sara. However, we have nowhere else to go.

  Bises,

  Simone

  My aunt’s letter gave me chills. I hoped they would make it to our village soon. Things were increasingly strange and tense here, but nothing like the situation she described in Paris. I didn’t have to wear an ugly yellow star on my coat. I was still able to go to school and play and gossip and laugh with my friends. I continued to try to reassure myself even when, in November, the newspaper reported that the Germans now occupied the Free Zone.

  Shortly thereafter, on an unseasonably warm fall day, my friend Mariann turned to me after school.

  “Some of us are going to go get ice cream,” she said. “Do you want to come?”

  “Sure,” I said, and happily walked with her and a couple of other girls from our class to the shop. When we got there, the others ran ahead to select their flavors, but a sign in the window caught my eye. Jews are not permitted here, it said.

  I stood there, staring at it.

  “I realized I left my wallet at home,” I told my friends when they emerged with their cones, confused at why I hadn’t accompanied them inside.

  “I can lend you the money,” offered Mariann, holding out her change purse.

  “Thanks, but it’s fine. I’m actually not hungry,” I told her.

  This was not entirely untrue. The sign in the window had definitely caused me to lose my appetite. She shrugged and we continued to walk together. I felt a wave of relief that none of them had noticed the sign. It made me feel odd and uncomfortable, like the shopkeepers knew something about me that I hadn’t even realized myself. Was I bad in some way? Unmannered, or unlikable, perhaps? I didn’t think so, but I also didn’t know who to ask.

  I fell back into laughing with my friends, pushing what had just occurred out of my mind. It’s just one store, I told myself. And they’re not the only ice cream shop in town. I’ll just have to get my ice cream somewhere else! I smiled, picturing the ice cream shop of my dreams. I imagined myself in a glamorous pink party dress, selecting scoop after scoop, until they presented me with a mouthwatering tower of an ice cream cone. At my imaginary ice cream parlor, Jews would be not only permitted but welcomed.

  Yet as I walked away with my friends, I couldn’t help but feel a sad ache.

  Everyone else’s ice cream cone was real.

  Mine was just make-believe.

  * * *

  —

  “Did your cousin’s family end up coming to stay with you?” asked Julian.

  “No. Before they could leave Paris, the Vel’ d’Hiv roundup happened.”

  “The Vel’ d’Hiv?”

  Grandmère hesitated. This was one of the reasons she had resisted telling Julian the whole story. But he had asked, and she had promised to tell him everything. Even the painful parts, like this. “It was a roundup of Jews,” she explained. “Like my aunt had feared. In July 1942, over 13,000 people, including 4,000 children, were arrested and held inside a stadium in Paris. The conditions were horrible. No food or water. Families were separated. Then they were put on trains and deported. Some were sent to internment camps in France. Most ended up in concentration camps in the east. Many died.”

  “That’s awful,” said Julian. “What about your cousin and his family?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “After the Vel’ d’Hiv, we never heard from them again.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Spring 1943

  “Sara?”

  I could hear Mademoiselle Petitjean calling my name, but just barely. It sounded like my teacher was at the other end of a long beach. Between us stretched a glorious expanse of flowers, leaves, and birds. With a flourish of my pencil, I added another little bird to the scene. I gave it wings and watched it take flight.

  “Sara.”

  Her voice came again, still a million miles away. I was too busy to respond, lost in a world of my own creation. In art class, this was fine. But it was hard for me to keep from drawing in other classes as well. Whenever Mademoiselle Petitjean began our math lesson, I would slide my sketchbook out from its hiding place beneath my textbook. Then, when she wasn’t looking, I would wander in.

  I couldn’t help it! I loved to draw. Birds. Flowers. Leaves. Drawing was my escape from the world. When I drew, I would forget about the war, the Nazis, and everything that was going on around me. I would lose myself in the doodles of my imagination. I would feel my soul take flight….

  “Sara!”

  “Huh? Yes?”

  Mademoiselle Petitjean stood over me, frowning. Embarrassed, I looked down and discovered, to my horror, blatant evidence of my daydreaming: an open sketchbook, filled with page after page of my drawings. My math book was shoved to one side, clearly ignored. I might have my mother’s smile, but I did not inherit her passion for mathematics.

  “Would you like to share your picture with the rest of the class?” my teacher asked pointedly.