“Good night, Sara,” he said, turning to leave.

  “Wait. Papa?” I called out.

  “Yes?”

  The question hadn’t even quite formed in my mind before the words came tumbling out of my mouth. “Why—why do they hate us, Papa? Why do people hate Jewish people?”

  “Not all people, Sara,” Papa corrected me. “You must never think it’s all people. Only some people.”

  “Bad people?” I whispered, clutching my stuffed puppy, Brigitte, to my chest.

  Papa sighed. He came over to my bed and sat down. “I try not to think in terms of good and bad,” he said. “I prefer to think in terms of light and dark. I believe that all people have a light that shines inside of them.”

  “A light?” I asked.

  Papa nodded earnestly. Maman had taken me to see Papa give a presentation once, at a medical college nearby. I remembered how impressed I was by his passion for his work as a surgeon. He was fascinated with all that medical interventions could do. But it was clear that what attracted him to his field was something that went even deeper—it was about saving people’s lives. The tone he took in my darkened bedroom told me that he was sharing something similarly important.

  “This light allows us to see into other people’s hearts, to see the beauty there,” he continued. “The love. The sadness. The humanity. Some people, though, have lost this light. They have darkness inside them, so that is all they see in others: darkness. No beauty. No love.”

  He gently brushed my hair out of my face. “Why do they hate us?” he asked. “Because they cannot see our light. Nor can they extinguish it. As long as we shine our light, we win. They will never take our light from us. Do you understand that, Sara?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  He smiled. “Now, I have a favor to ask.”

  “What is it?”

  “I want you to keep wearing your winter boots to school.”

  I frowned, out of confusion as much as unhappiness, and hugged Brigitte even tighter. What a strange request! I couldn’t help but protest.

  “What? No! It’s April already! I don’t need my winter boots.”

  Maman might have argued back, using logic and reason.

  Papa did not. “Please, little bird? For me?” he said.

  “But why?”

  “Just promise me.”

  It was rare for Papa to ask anything of me. So even though it was a ridiculous request, I quickly caved. “Oh, all right. Fine. I promise.”

  Papa seemed relieved by my answer. I said good night and snuggled down into my covers, cuddling Brigitte. I had already thought up a solution that would make everyone happy. In the morning, I would leave the house wearing my heavy winter boots to please Papa. But the second I was out of view, I’d swap them for my regular shoes.

  The next morning, I headed out the door with my father. Maman called after me for leaving without a hug, but we were in a hurry, so I ran back and gave her a quick bisou instead. “Mwah!” I cried dramatically, darting off again as fast as my dreaded boots would carry me. When we reached the main square, Papa said goodbye at the fountain before heading to his office.

  “À bientôt, little bird,” he said, gathering me into a quick embrace. He glanced down at my feet. “And thank you for wearing your boots.”

  “Of course.” I smiled. “Have a nice day, Papa.”

  I watched as he hurried off. As soon as he turned the corner, I wriggled out of my bulky clodhoppers. From my bag I withdrew the pair of red shoes that I had practically begged Maman to buy me, back when Jews were welcome in all the local stores. I slipped them onto my feet and buckled the lovely straps, ignoring a pang of guilt.

  Instantly, I felt like a princess. Sure, I was cold—but at least I looked fashionable! And with everything that’s going on, I told myself, I need a little happiness. Walking into school wearing those gorgeous red shoes made everything feel a bit better. What’s more, they told the world that Sara Blum was a chic girl with a good head on her shoulders, striding confidently into the future. At that moment, I very much wanted to show that side of myself to the world.

  And what Papa didn’t know about my shoe swap wouldn’t hurt him!

  CHAPTER SIX

  That day was a Wednesday, so we had art class first thing in the morning. Every week, I looked forward to Wednesday. But as soon as art class came to an end, we had to return from the art room for my least favorite subject: math. It felt incredibly unfair to have my worst class immediately after my best one.

  I dragged my feet every step of the way, resigned to my fate. To make matters worse, I had purposely left my sketchbook in the art room so I wouldn’t be tempted to doodle.

  “Let’s review the Pythagorean theorem,” said Mademoiselle Petitjean, standing at the board. Pointing at a formula with her chalk, she began to explain, “You’ll notice that a squared plus b squared—”

  “Mademoiselle Petitjean.”

  We all turned to see Pastor Luc, the directeur of the school, standing in the doorway of the room.

  “Can I have a word with you, please?” he asked, his tone urgent.

  “Yes, Pastor Luc.”

  He whispered in her ear. I couldn’t hear his words, but I saw him looking around the room as he spoke. He locked eyes with me for a split second, his brow furrowed.

  I glanced over at Mariann. Her expression told me she was getting the same feeling I was. Something was wrong.

  When Pastor Luc left, Mademoiselle Petitjean turned to face us. She seemed frustrated, yet determined.

  “Children, I have to leave for a few minutes,” she said. “I want all of you to behave until I return, okay?”

  Under normal circumstances, an opportunity like this would lead to some light classroom chaos. We weren’t babies, but it was just too tempting to leave our seats and gossip with our friends. But this was clearly far from a normal time.

  “Ruth? Sara?”

  I looked up, surprised to hear my name called.

  “Will you please get your things and come with me?” Mademoiselle Petitjean said. “Quickly,” she added.

  “Me! Why?” I asked, exchanging glances with Mariann and Sophie.

  “Why?” echoed Ruth.

  “I’ll explain outside. Come, girls. Quick, quick!” She ushered us out into the hall. I heard her call back to the rest of my classmates, “The rest of you, stay in your seats until I return. Be good, children.”

  Taking me and Ruth by the hand, she marched us through the halls and down the stairs. Her tone was brisk and businesslike. “There’s a roundup of the Jews in Aubervilliers-aux-Bois,” she informed us. “The Nazis are on their way here to get the children. A maquisard is going to take you and the other Jewish children to hide in the woods.”

  Maquisard? Roundup? Nazis? The words ran in circles as what she was saying began to register. I knew maquisards were members of the Maquis, the French underground that was resisting the Germans. The Nazis were coming here? For us?

  “There he is!” cried Mademoiselle Petitjean when we reached the ground floor. “Let’s hurry.” Then she looked at me and her expression suddenly changed. “But, Sara, where is your coat?”

  “I left it in the art room this morning,” I confessed. At the time, I had assumed I would swing by to collect my sketchbook and coat before heading home. “I’m sorry,” I added.

  “It’s okay,” she said, though she looked concerned. Quickly, she untied her yellow scarf. “Here, take this,” she said, looping it around my neck. “It’ll keep you warm.”

  I was grateful for her kind gesture. And also overwhelmed. Everything was happening so fast. “I’m scared,” I whispered as she pulled the scarf tightly around me.

  Mademoiselle Petitjean leaned in, her face inches from mine. “I know, but you’re going to be all right,” she told me. “Just remember…you’re not alone.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to match my tone to hers.

  As we left the school, a chilly breeze made me look up. Tiny flakes of snow were falling from the sky. They landed on my bare arms and Ruth’s winter coat. Other teachers joined us in the courtyard, leading their students, too. I saw Nathan, Daniel, Rebecca, Saul, and several other kids. Saul was only six and Rebecca was fifteen, and it looked like there were about twelve of us—all grades and ages. We gathered around Pastor Luc and the maquisard, who were standing under the gated archway. The maquisard was a tall, lanky young man dressed in gray and olive-drab clothing, including a gray wool cap. Over his shoulder was a long rifle, the barrel pointed at the sky.

  “Children, pay close attention,” Pastor Luc instructed us.

  “You have to stay quiet. And run fast,” the maquisard told us. “Can you run fast?”

  “Yes,” said a boy standing near me.

  “Yes,” agreed Rebecca.

  “Very fast,” piped up Saul. This was debatable, as he was the littlest boy, but no one argued with him. I stood silently, feeling cold but also numb. How can this be happening? I wanted to ask. Don’t the Nazis know our village is in the Free Zone? With a shudder, I remembered what Papa had said: There is no more Free Zone.

  We had no time for goodbyes. When the maquisard started running toward the woods, everyone followed him.

  Everyone except me.

  Instead, I stood like a statue. There was a flurry of activity as the students tried to catch up with the maquisard. Meanwhile, Pastor Luc and the teachers stood off to one side, huddled together in a hushed conversation. Keeping one eye on them, I quietly began walking backward. Silently, I slipped inside the school building, hoping no one would notice me. And as soon as I got to the staircase, I bolted up it.

  I ran to the bell tower and climbed higher to the belfry. It wasn’t really a conscious choice; I just wanted to get as far away as possible and hide until the threat was over. On some level I suppose I was thinking about the fact that the bell hadn’t worked for years. No one ever went up to the belfry.

  So many thoughts ran through my head as I sat there, hiding. I felt guilty for leaving the others. I wondered about the maquisard. Who was he? How did he know what to do and where to go? He didn’t look much older than some of the students at our school. As I glanced down, my stylish red shoes caught my eye. If I ruined those gorgeous shoes by running around the woods in them, I would be devastated, and my parents would be furious with me.

  I sat there, shivering, and waited for someone to come and tell me that the situation had been resolved. That there had been a misunderstanding. That the threat was over. That it was time to go home. None of these things happened.

  Instead, the Nazis came.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Nazis pulled up in a truck. Their truck was followed by another truck, this one filled with gendarmes. It was a strange sight to me. In my village, the gendarmes were our local policemen. Once, when I was little, I got separated from Maman and Papa in the market square. I did what they had always instructed me to do if such a thing ever happened: looked for a gendarme. I walked up to a man in the familiar uniform and told him I was lost. He kept me safe, helped me find my parents, and even bought me a cherry-red lollipop. From that day forward, I always felt warmly about the gendarmes.

  That is, until I saw those very same men piling out of their truck and conferring with the Nazis. They were clearly working together, and their common task was obviously to round up Jews. Just like what had happened in Paris. When I saw those two trucks, my knees began to shake and I felt like I might vomit.

  I knew in my heart that I was not going home. Not that day. Maybe not ever.

  From my hiding place high in the bell tower, I could hear them shouting the moment they got off the trucks.

  “Who is in charge? We’re here on official business. We have orders to follow!”

  Pastor Luc ran to meet them. I watched through a narrow window in the tower as he talked to the German soldiers. One of them seemed to be the boss. He produced a piece of paper and shoved it into Pastor Luc’s face.

  “This is the official list,” he barked. “Bring these children here immediately.”

  Pastor Luc bent his head, appearing to study the list intently. Then he looked up. “I am sorry to have to tell you this, but none of these children came to school today,” he said.

  “Oh, please!” scoffed the soldier. “You expect me to believe that? Where are you hiding them?”

  At the sound of the word “hiding,” I pulled back from the window. But in a few minutes, I couldn’t resist peeking out again. The soldiers were still conferring with the pastor. He was shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head. “They must have been tipped off beforehand,” one of the soldiers insisted.

  I held my breath. The soldier in charge swore and stomped his foot. Then he shouted angrily at the others, rounding them up to leave.

  But before they could board the trucks, a voice called out from a window.

  “A maquisard took them into the woods!”

  It came from a classroom below me, so I couldn’t see who it was. But Vincent’s arrogant voice was unmistakable. And his words were all the German soldiers needed to hear.

  “To the woods!” shouted the leader. “To the woods!”

  The soldiers ran into the woods. I had not been raised in a religious household, but if ever there was a time for prayer, this was it. I closed my eyes and wished for Ruth, Rebecca, little Saul, and all the others to run far and fast. They had a head start, after all. Hopefully, it would be enough.

  It was not, and I knew it as soon as I opened my eyes and looked in the direction where everyone had run. It was still snowing, but too lightly to cover their tracks. If I could see the footprints from the bell tower, there was no way the soldiers would fail to notice them.

  It did not take long for the soldiers to return with the children, many of whom were crying and all of whom were shivering in the cold. Snow did not usually fall this late in spring, so none of them were wearing boots. The maquisard was with them, led by a Nazi soldier.

  The Nazi leader immediately marched over. He seized the maquisard and pulled him away from the group. Some of the soldiers followed while others guided the children to the back of one of the trucks. The boss forced the maquisard to a spot on the other side of the vehicle.

  “On your knees,” he ordered.

  At first the maquisard stood there defiantly. He stared off into the distance as if he hadn’t heard the order. With a sharp whack, the Nazi brought him to his knees.

  “Vive l’humanité!” the maquisard cried. It was the first time I’d ever heard that particular slogan. “Long live humanity!”

  And then a shot rang out.

  He fell awkwardly to one side, landing faceup. I saw red on the front of his jacket and in the snow next to him—his blood. He lay there, not moving. The snowflakes kept falling, covering his body like a blanket.

  I wanted to scream, but the sound got caught in my throat. I looked around the courtyard anxiously, waiting for someone to run over and try to help him. I listened desperately for the siren of an emergency vehicle.

  No one came.

  The soldiers ignored him. Instead, they turned their attention to the children, lifting them up onto the back of the truck.

  “Where are you taking us?” I heard little Saul ask.

  “To be with your parents. You’ll see them soon.”

  My eyes filled with tears. I very nearly cried out in my anger and frustration. Run! Get away! They’re lying to you. They just shot a man. He’s lying in the snow and they don’t want you to see.

  But I didn’t dare make a sound. I knew I couldn’t help them. They had run and tried to get away. Yet here they were, being rounded up and taken who knew where.

  And who knew what my fate would be if they realized I was missing?

  Pastor Luc and some of the teachers, including Mademoiselle Petitjean, came running over to the truck. They must have seen what happened to the maquisard, but they did not attend to him. This told me that it was too late.

  “Wait! Please!” cried Pastor Luc, begging the German officer in charge. “I implore you, for the love of God, let these children go.”

  The officer scowled at him. “I should shoot you for lying to us.”

  I flinched and covered my face. But this time no shot came, and I dared to look again.

  “I suggest you and your teachers go back inside and mind your own business,” snarled the officer.

  “The children are our business,” insisted Pastor Luc.

  “Go inside, or I’ll shoot one of your teachers right in front of you.”

  This horrible threat seemed to change things for Pastor Luc. He nodded, looking down, and tried to guide Mademoiselle Petitjean back into the school. I heard him say, “Marie, there is nothing more we can do here. Let’s go inside.”

  Marie, he called her. There was a gentleness to his voice, like the way my papa sometimes spoke to me if I was being stubborn and he didn’t want to upset me further. I looked down at her, and for the first time ever, I realized how young Mademoiselle Petitjean was. Not much older than Rebecca or Vincent. Like me, she wasn’t wearing a coat. Just a bright red dress that I had admired that morning, especially since it matched my pretty red shoes. Now her outfit made me think of the maquisard’s blood.

  Please listen to him, I silently begged. If these soldiers thought nothing of murdering the maquisard, they were certainly capable of ending her life, too.

  Yet Mademoiselle Petitjean stood her ground. “But the children—” she protested.