“Huh?” I looked at him, confused.

  “That was actually a little joke.”

  “Ohh!” I said, surprised. Then it hit me. It was funny.

  “Ha.” A nervous little laugh escaped my lips. Then the absurdity of my day suddenly struck me. If a fortune-teller had magically appeared in art class that morning and told me that by the end of the day I would be sitting in a hayloft in Dannevilliers laughing at a joke told by Tourteau, I would have advised her to find a new job.

  “Ha-ha-ha-ha! Hahahahaha!” Something inside me broke loose and I began to laugh for real.

  “Ha-ha-ha! Hahahaha!” Tourteau joined me, clearly pleased at having made me laugh.

  “Hahahaha! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!” It felt so good. I laughed so hard, it was difficult to stop.

  “Hee-hee-hee!”

  I hadn’t laughed like that in a long time. Certainly not since all the trouble began. I remembered that awful day at the ice cream shop. It seemed like a million years ago, and yet it felt like if you lined up all the days between that day and this one, there was a sort of domino effect. One little thing toppling over into the next and the next until the moment when Pastor Luc interrupted our math class and everything changed.

  I wiped away my tears of laughter, my emotions suddenly shifting. I almost couldn’t bring myself to say what I was wondering. And yet I couldn’t not ask.

  With a quavering voice, I asked, “Did you see what they did to the maquisard?”

  “Yes,” said Tourteau simply. His furrowed brow told me it had upset him as much as it had me. “But let’s not think about that now,” he suggested.

  I felt a flash of concern. I knew he was trying to help, but his words made me remember that there were other things we shouldn’t think about. What could be worse than what they had done to the maquisard? The unimaginable answer came rushing at me.

  “But what if something happened to my parents?” I asked.

  “Your parents are fine. They’re probably hiding, just like you.” Tourteau’s voice was confident, as if he had just settled them into the hayloft of a barn down the road. “Speaking of parents, though, I should go tell mine what’s going on.”

  “Wait. Are you sure?” I asked. I had never met Tourteau’s parents. I knew his father was a sewer worker, but that was about all I knew.

  As if he could read my mind, he nodded. “Don’t worry. You can trust my parents, just like you can trust me.”

  Could I trust him? I was beginning to wonder if I could trust anyone. The sympathies of someone like Vincent were obvious. But what about all the other students? Did they stay in their seats obediently, with no thoughts of what might be going on in the courtyard? And what about the teachers? I didn’t know what to believe about them, but I knew in my heart I could trust someone like Mademoiselle Petitjean, who was willing to get on a truck to protect her students. And I knew I could also trust Tourteau.

  It suddenly occurred to me that after all he’d done for me, I had done very little to express my appreciation. My voice cracked as I stumbled over my words.

  “I…I don’t know how to thank you, Tourteau. You saved my life.”

  “Oh, it’s okay.” He seemed flustered, and perhaps even a little embarrassed, by my outpouring. “Though I do have one suggestion…,” he added.

  “Yes. Anything!” I replied gratefully.

  “Well, maybe you can call me by my real name instead of Tourteau?”

  The request took me by surprise. Now it was my turn to be embarrassed, and more than a little. Obviously, his real name was not Tourteau! It was…oh, dear, what was it?

  “Yes! Of course! Umm…umm…,” I stammered, trying to come up with it.

  “My name is Julien. Julien Beaumier.”

  He extended his hand, as if we were meeting for the first time. And in a way, we were. He was no longer Tourteau, the boy I had, at best, ignored and, at worst, treated as no better than a sewer rat. The boy whose face I never paid any attention to, instead seeing only his awkward gait and his omnipresent crutches. The boy who had risked his life to help me escape.

  I took his hand in mine and gave it a formal shake.

  “Julien,” I repeated.

  * * *

  —

  “Julian?” said Julian incredulously. “Like…my name?”

  “Mais oui,” his grandmother told him. “His family used the traditional French spelling: J-U-L-I-E-N. That is the name, of all the names in the world, that I have held closest to my heart. It is the name I gave to your father. And it is the name he gave to you. Julian.”

  “Wow. I mean, I guess that makes sense. After what he did for you.”

  Grandmère nodded solemnly. My dear boy, she said to herself, you have no idea.

  CHAPTER TEN

  After Tourteau—or rather, Julien—left the barn, I tried to make my eyes adjust to the dim light. But it was no use. I was so physically and emotionally drained that straining my eyes to look around me proved to be too much. My stomach rumbled and ached, and it dawned on me that I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink all day.

  I wrapped myself in hay, like Julien had showed me, and closed my eyes. I kept my ears focused, questioning every whisper of the wind through the many cracks in the walls. What if the Nazis tracked us here and were about to close in on me?

  “Please come back, please come back, please come back,” I chanted to myself through chattering teeth.

  A short while later, I heard noises coming from below me. My eyes flew open, but when I saw the glint of light from a lantern, the rest of me remained paralyzed by fear. I was sure that the Nazis had found me. I braced myself, knowing the next voice I heard would be that of the horrible German soldier who shot the maquisard.

  It would probably be the last sound I ever heard.

  “Sara? It’s me.”

  I quickly dug myself out of my hay pile and scrambled over to the edge of the loft. Julien’s voice gave me the tiny burst of hope I needed, and seeing him standing, flanked by his parents, in the light of a lantern he was holding, added to my joy.

  Julien’s father helped me down from the loft. I was grateful that he did. I was so exhausted, I might have slipped and fallen if I had tried to do it alone.

  “Don’t worry, chérie,” Julien’s mother said to me. “You are safe here.”

  Julien’s father nodded. “Julien told us everything that has happened. We will take care of you until we can find your parents.” Then he and Julien’s mother wrapped a warm orange blanket around me. I pulled it close to me and noticed that it smelled like lavender. She handed me a parcel, which turned out to contain several warm, dry articles of clothing.

  “I am Vivienne, and this is Jean-Paul,” said Julien’s mother. “You must be famished, chérie. Why don’t you get out of your wet things? Then you can have some soup while we clean the place up for you.” She wore a dark green dress with buttons up the front, and a cardigan sweater the color of Dijon mustard. She was nowhere near as beautiful as Maman—no one was, in my opinion—but she had a kind face and a forthright manner that set me at ease almost immediately. Jean-Paul was tall and serious-looking, with a mustache like Papa’s, only thicker. He wore a workman’s cap, similar to the one Julien often wore, and I noticed that his pants were tucked into his work boots—presumably to keep them dry in the sewers.

  I ducked into a corner of the barn, and they all turned away while I quickly shed my soaked garments and sopping shoes. The clothes Vivienne provided were loose and ill-fitting, for which she apologized when I emerged wearing them. “As soon as your things are clean and dry, I will return them to you,” she promised.

  “But now that you’re changed, you should eat,” suggested Julien. “My mother is an excellent cook. Her potage is one of my favorite soups. All the vegetables come from our garden.”

  I accepted the steaming bowl from Vivienne and began to eat heartily, forgoing any attempt at the manners Maman had tried to instill in me. It was thick and savory, with potatoes and herbs, and I quickly polished it off. It made me think of the chicken soup that Maman would often make, rich with potatoes, onions, carrots, and dill. I felt an intense wave of longing for her. I wanted to run into her arms. I wanted to feel her hug me tight, like she’d never let go. And I wanted to tell her something.

  I pictured myself pulling back from that hug and gazing up at her. You’re wrong, Maman, I would say. Nothing in Dannevilliers tastes like the sewers. I imagined she would laugh and draw me close again.

  Yet that happy thought quickly led to a sudden realization. The flavor of produce grown in Dannevilliers wasn’t the only thing Maman had been wrong about.

  Maman might have won the argument about staying in France longer.

  But Papa had been right.

  * * *

  —

  After I finished my soup, I noticed that the Beaumier family was looking around the loft and quietly conferring. Jean-Paul was pointing and Julien was nodding. Vivienne went over to the corner and came back with a broom.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s possible you’ll be here with us for a while,” answered Julien. “So we’d like to make your accommodations a little more, shall we say, livable.”

  “That’s not necessary,” I protested, my manners having been minorly restored by the nourishment.

  Julien held up a hand. “We insist. It would be terrible to have you escape from the Nazis only to catch your death of hay fever. Or spider bites!”

  “At least let me help,” I offered. I put down my bowl and stumbled to my feet.

  “Oh no no,” replied Vivienne. “I won’t hear of it! After all you’ve been through.”

  “But…I want to be useful. Just give me a job.”

  Vivienne smiled. Using her broom, she gently “swept” me over to a spot she had cleared on the barn floor. “You can sit here and watch us work. Your job is to tell us if we miss anything. Okay?” Her tone suggested that this was not an actual question. So I did as I was told and sat.

  For the next few hours, I dutifully watched as they cleaned out the dust and cobwebs and swept the floor. Jean-Paul climbed up to the hayloft and created a wall out of the hay bales, lined up with the front edge of the loft. That created the illusion that the loft was fully stocked. Anyone who came into the barn would look up and quickly conclude that the hayloft could not possibly contain anything other than hay.

  “It’s perfect,” cried Julien, checking his father’s work from below. “I can’t see anything from down here.”

  It was a great plan, from what I could tell. You would never guess anyone was up there. From my assigned spot, next to a barrel on the barn floor, I gazed up with gratitude. I looked forward to climbing back up as soon as they finished cleaning, and finding what they had promised would await me on the other side of the hay wall: a tidy room created just for me.

  But the Beaumiers weren’t quite finished. They were a hardworking trio, and they were clearly determined to see this project through. So I sat and waited as patiently as I could. After a while, I lay down and rested my eyes. Soon the soft rhythmic whisk-whisk-whisk of Vivienne’s broom turned into a soft fluttering by my ear. A little white bird was sitting on my shoulder. It gently tugged on my hair and trilled softly, inviting me to join it and take flight.

  So I did.

  I spread my wings and felt a current of air lift me higher and higher. I flew away from Dannevilliers, flying over Aubervilliers-aux-Bois, and the mountains, and the bluebell glade of the Mernuit. As high as I was, I recognized all these sights easily: the bell tower of my school, the town square, the glowing purple blossoms of the forest floor. I followed the moon to distant cities, over train stations and railway tracks.

  I flew very, very far, though I felt no tiredness and no pain. What I felt was an urgency to get to where I was going. Although I wasn’t sure where that was until I saw her.

  Maman.

  I circled above, watching her. She was wearing her long yellow coat, which I had dubbed her “kittycat coat” when I was little. The name had stuck. She hadn’t worn it in ages, but it was always my favorite because the fabric around the collar was as soft as a newborn kitten’s fur. She was standing outside a long, low brick-red building with a tall tower at the center. The moon was up behind the building, since it was nighttime. But I didn’t wonder where she was going so late in the evening, or why she was wearing that coat.

  At that moment, she turned and looked up. Somehow, she saw me.

  “Sara,” she said, because she knew it was me.

  “That’s right, Maman,” I said. “I’m here. And I’m going to be okay. And so are you.” Only she couldn’t understand me, because I was a bird. Yet I could tell it made her happy to know that I was safe.

  “Sara.”

  “Sara?”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m so sorry to wake you, Sara, but I’m leaving now.” Vivienne was on her knees, gazing at me with concern. “Jean-Paul and Julien already left. I will come back with more food and water tomorrow. All right, chérie?”

  I sat up slowly, as the room swam into view and I realized I had drifted off. It took me a moment to sort out what was real and what had been a dream. And another moment to find my words. “Yes. Thank you,” I finally said.

  “I’ll help you back up to the loft, but you’ll need to hide yourself—Jean-Paul left you a passageway so you can slide in and out between the hay bales. Once you’re up there, please don’t come down from the loft for any reason.”

  “What about—” I asked, feeling embarrassed.

  “We set things up for you, up there,” said Vivienne. “It’s a bucket, which is not ideal, obviously. But I’ll help take care of things—you’ll see.” She sighed. “And there’s really no other option. Julien explained about our neighbors, yes? They don’t usually come to the barn, but still, let’s be safe.”

  I nodded. “Yes. I won’t go down.”

  Vivienne seemed reassured by my words. And honestly, I meant what I said. The girl who had swapped her practical boots for her frivolous red shoes was someone I no longer recognized.

  I must have looked sad, for Vivienne’s face softened even further. “I know this is hard, chérie, but stay strong,” she urged, cupping her hands around my face and looking deep into my eyes. “You will be with your maman and papa soon. Until that day comes, we will take good care of you, I promise.”

  It was only when she hugged me that I started to cry. I had not cried all day, but once the tears came, I could not stop them.

  “Oh, you poor thing,” said Vivienne, holding me tighter and cradling my head tenderly. “There, there. It’s going to be okay. You’ll see.”

  I only cried harder.

  Her embrace was so warm, yet I felt like I would never be warm again.

  Her arms reminded me of my maman’s arms, and the way it felt when she wrapped them around me. Her never-let-you-go hugs.

  I cried, too, because in my heart I knew that I would never feel my maman’s arms around me again. I knew, from my dream, that I would never see my beautiful maman again.

  * * *

  —

  “But you did, Grandmère,” said Julian hopefully, “didn’t you?”

  His grandmother didn’t answer at first. Why, after all these years, were the words so hard? She could picture her mother in her mind’s eye, just as she had in the dream. And she felt a tug at her heart, even after so many years. It made no sense—it was so long ago and she had been a mere child. Yet she always felt a pang of guilt when she thought of her mother, as if there was something she had neglected to do for her. Ridiculous that after all this time, her brain was stuck in its childish mode when it came to such things.

  “I learned what happened much later,” she finally told Julian. “That morning, when my father made me wear my boots, I kissed her goodbye and headed off to the square with him. We were in a hurry, so I didn’t even hug her. Later that day, the Gestapo came for her. They put her on a train to Drancy, just outside Paris. And from there, they transported her to Auschwitz.”

  She took a deep breath before continuing.

  “That is where she died.”

  PART TWO

  I hear your cries, you little voices of children….

  —Muriel Rukeyser, “Seventh Elegy: The Dream-Singing Elegy”

  “The next few days and nights were the hardest of my life,” Grandmère told Julian. “I was so scared that the Nazis would find me. I worried about my parents and missed them desperately. And I struggled with the lack of clarity about, well, everything. How long would I have to hide in the hayloft? How would we know it was safe to venture out? And if I could leave—where would I go, and how would I reunite with my parents?”

  “How old were you?” asked Julian.

  “I was more or less your age. Just about thirteen.”

  “And this was pre-internet, obviously. Right?”

  “Correct,” Grandmère replied with a little chuckle.

  “I didn’t mean for playing games and streaming videos,” Julian quickly added. “I just meant you couldn’t use the internet to look for your parents. Because it’s really good for that kind of stuff. Like, this one time, our neighbors’ Yorkie, Chewie, got out. They put it online and someone found him within a few hours.” He suddenly looked worried. “I’m sorry—I wasn’t comparing you to a lost dog, Grandmère.”

  “I know, mon cher. I know.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “What could I do?” Grandmère shrugged. “I was stuck in the hayloft, unable to show my face. I relied on the Beaumiers, who could come and go, and who were determined to find my parents. I’m not sure how they were able to feed me, since food was strictly rationed at the time. But each day they would bring something for me to eat, and—if I was lucky—news.”