Churchill's Secret Messenger

by Alan Hlad

Genres: Coming of Age; Historical Fiction; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

From the author of the acclaimed international bestseller The Long Flight Home, comes a riveting World War II-era story of courage and daring, as a young woman is drafted into Churchill's overseas spy network.

London, 1941: In a cramped bunker in Winston Churchill's Cabinet War Rooms, underneath Westminster's Treasury building, civilian women huddle at desks, typing up confidential documents and reports. Since her parents were killed in a bombing raid, Rose Teasdale has spent more hours than usual in Room 60, working double shifts, growing accustomed to the burnt scent of the Prime Minister's cigars permeating the stale air. Winning the war is the only thing that matters, and she will gladly do her part. And when Rose's fluency in French comes to the attention of Churchill himself, it brings a rare yet dangerous opportunity.
Rose is recruited for the Special Operations Executive, a secret British organization that conducts espionage in Nazi-occupied Europe. After weeks of grueling training, Rose parachutes into France with a new codename: Dragonfly. Posing as a cosmetics saleswoman in Paris, she ferries messages to and from the Resistance, knowing that the slightest misstep means capture or death.
Soon Rose is assigned to a new mission with Lazare Aron, a French Resistance fighter who has watched his beloved Paris become a shell of itself, with desolate streets and buildings draped in Swastikas. Since his parents were sent to a German work camp, Lazare has dedicated himself to the cause with the same fervor as Rose. Yet Rose's very loyalty brings risks as she undertakes a high-stakes prison raid, and discovers how much she may have to sacrifice to justify Churchill's faith in her...

Release date: April 27, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

On the one hundred fifty-ninth day of Hitler’s bombing of Britain, Rose Teasdale was typing correspondence in Room 60 of Winston Churchill’s underground Cabinet War Rooms. A soft patter of keys, striking the inked-cloth ribbon, emanated from her Remington Noiseless typewriter. As typists pressed their carriage return levers, their eyes remained steadfast on their handwritten notes. The secretarial staff—crammed inside the masonry bunker with several switchboard operators—was drafting documents generated by a frenzied afternoon of cabinet meetings.

“One of your reports will help lead us to victory,” Rose whispered to Lucy, a young bespectacled typist sitting next to her.

Lucy, her shoulders slumped from fatigue, smiled and increased her words-per-minute pace.

Room 60, a twenty-by-twenty-foot bunker deep beneath the Treasury building in Westminster, was one of several chambers in Churchill’s Cabinet War Rooms. Instead of containing military officials, Room 60 was comprised of civilian women. Seven switchboard operators, wearing headsets and poking corded plugs into a wall of communication circuitry, sat on swiveling bar-like stools with their backs to the typists. The rest of the space was comprised of several typists sitting at small wooden desks. It was a tight space for the women, but Rose, a petite five-foot-tall twenty-two-year-old woman, didn’t mind the cramped quarters. Unlike the other women, who were much taller, Rose had short legs that fit splendidly under her desk.

Some of the typists, including Rose, were products of Mrs. Hoster’s Secretarial Training College in London, which had a brilliant reputation for turning out dependable assistants. And Rose believed that this schooling likely had something to do with her accelerated path to Room 60. She had not set out to work in the heart of the British military command. But when Hitler began his aerial bombing campaign on London back in September, Rose—working as a secretary in the Treasury building—was provided security clearance, led by a military guard to the basement of the building, and given a new assignment: typist for the Cabinet War Rooms.

The initial days of working in the war rooms were unnerving for Rose. The close proximity of the prime minister and senior officers gave her a bout of the jitters, causing her to type mistakes and, on one occasion, spill a tepid cup of tea on a document she had drafted. The burnt scent of Churchill’s cigar, which lingered in the stagnant basement air, had turned her stomach sour. To compound matters, the Luftwaffe air raids, which occurred on an almost nightly basis, had forced many Londoners to spend nights in shelters. And when she wasn’t sleeping between shifts in the sub-basement below the war rooms, often referred to as the “dock,” Rose had spent nights—as the city was bombarded—with her parents in the Bethnal Green tube station.

As days passed, Rose grew accustomed to the gruff demeanor of Churchill and his staff. Their fortitude will help us survive, Rose told herself, typing a confidential report on potential locations where Hitler would commence a land invasion of Britain. The thought of Nazis marching through London sent chills up her spine. Rose, like most Londoners, forced herself to carry on, despite the horrid destruction and loss of life. But the source of Rose’s resilience wasn’t entirely self-motivated. It was fueled, Rose believed, by the death of her brother, Charlie.

Charlie, Rose’s only sibling, had been killed in August when his RAF Spitfire was shot down over the Channel. His body was never recovered, and she prayed that he died fast and didn’t suffer. Rose and her parents, Emilienne and Herbert, were heartbroken. Family photographs were forbidden to be displayed on desks, so Rose kept a childhood picture of Charlie, a curly-haired boy with dimpled cheeks and an infectious smile, tucked inside the top drawer of her desk. The photo was taken at their grandparents’ home in France, where Rose and Charlie spent summer holidays. When Rose was doleful or exhausted, which occurred far more often than she liked to admit, she opened her drawer to see Charlie. I miss you terribly, she would often say to herself. After closing her drawer, she would return to typing, more determined than ever to do her duty to help Britain survive.

As Rose was placing a fresh sheet of stationery into her typewriter, the approaching sound of a woman’s shoes clicked in the hallway.

“Gwyneth has contracted tonsillitis,” a middle-aged woman announced, entering the room. “We need a typist to work a twenty-four-hour shift.”

Rose looked up. The secretarial supervisor, Gladys Goswick, wearing an olive wool skirt and matching jacket, stood near the doorway.

The women paused, resting their hands beside their typewriters. Some of the switchboard operators, their ears covered by headsets, were unaware of Goswick’s presence and continued to plug their cords into circuitry.

“Lucy?” Goswick locked her eyes on the typist.

Lucy nodded and then lowered her head.

The typists had little, if any, say in the schedules. When overtime was needed, or when someone called out due to illness, they were randomly drafted to work double shifts. Goswick was viewed as a fair supervisor, but she seldom conversed with the staff about personal matters, unlike Rose, who thought one should strive to know a little something about coworkers. And Rose knew, from joining the women on breaks at the canteen in the Treasury building, that Lucy had plans to spend the evening with her boyfriend, Jonathan, a firefighter who was receiving his first night off in over two weeks.

As the supervisor turned to leave, Rose interrupted. “Miss Goswick.”

Goswick paused, placing her hands on her hips.

“Would it be all right if I worked this evening instead of Lucy?”

Lucy’s eyes widened.

“I have some reports I’d like to finish,” Rose said, pointing to a stack of papers. “I’m not tired, and I’m thinking that I could accomplish a fair amount of work,” she added, hoping her supervisor didn’t notice the dark circles under eyes.

Goswick nodded, and then left.

“Thank you, Rose,” Lucy said, leaning in. “I promise to make it up to you.”

“No need,” Rose said. “Enjoy your evening with Jonathan.”

Lucy and Jonathan, a man who risked his life to save Londoners from fires and collapsed buildings, had been dating for over a year. Rose suspected that they would eventually be married. She hoped that someday she’d meet someone that she fancied spending time with, but with the war, she’d placed her personal endeavors on hold. And since the death of her brother, she’d preferred to bury herself in her work.

At her break, Rose went to a public phone box, located outside of the Treasury building. Typists were not permitted to use the telephones in the Cabinet War Rooms, which were limited to official government business, so she climbed the stairs, cleared security, and then walked to the end of the street. Stepping inside a telephone box, she picked up the receiver, inserted a coin, and rang her parents.

“Teasdale Grocery,” her father said, rather abruptly.

“Hello, Dad.”

“Rose,” he said, his voice turning bright. “Everything all right?”

“I’m going to work an extra shift,” she said. “I’ll be home in the morning.”

“Chin up,” he said. “Churchill needs you, and I’m sure you’re doing a brilliant job, otherwise he wouldn’t require you to work so much.”

I volunteered. “Churchill has his own personal assistants,” Rose said. “I’m merely a staff typist.”

“You’re helping us win this bloody war.”

Rose’s chest swelled with confidence. You always have a way of making me feel rather plucky.

“Those oranges are for children!” Herbert blurted.

Rose pulled the receiver away from her ear. She envisioned the sign that her mother had made to place beside a small basket of oranges, a rare shipment that came from America. The consumption of oranges was restricted to children only. Her parents loathed rationing, but strictly followed the government’s protocol for grocers.

“Sorry,” Herbert said. “Bloody customers keep overlooking the sign for the oranges.”

“It’s okay.”

“How about I make you and your mum eggs and fried bread for breakfast.”

“That’d be splendid,” Rose said.

“Would you like to talk to your mum?”

“If she’s nearby.”

“Emilienne!” Herbert called. “It’s Rose!”

As Rose waited for her mother to come to the phone, she thought of her parents. During the Great War, Herbert had been in the British infantry, stationed on the western front. Emilienne, a seamstress from Paris, had volunteered as a French nurse. They’d met, fallen in love, and then moved to London after the war. Despite how bad things were in London, she felt fortunate that her parents had chosen to reside in Britain, rather than France, otherwise they’d now be living under Nazi occupation.

“Bonjour, ma chérie,” Emilienne said, answering the phone.

“Bonjour, Mum.”

“Working late again?” Emilienne asked.

“Yes,” Rose said, feeling a bit disappointed that her mother did not continue the conversation in French.

“You work too much.”

You too, Rose thought. When Mum wasn’t working in the grocery, she was earning extra money by taking on seamstress work, which she completed at night in an air raid shelter. “How’s your back?”

“Stiff,” Emilienne said.

“The concrete floor in the tube station is bad for your spine,” Rose said. “Take some extra blankets to the shelter. And use the pillow from my bed. It’s soft. You can place it under your back.”

“All right,” Emilienne said, sounding grateful for her daughter’s concern.

Rose spoke with her mother for a few minutes, avoiding topics that would remind them of Charlie’s death. It’d been several months since the funeral, but there was a lingering sadness embedded in the timbre of her mother’s voice. And Rose wondered if their heartache would ever go away.

“Try to get some rest tonight,” Emilienne said.

“You too,” Rose said.

Rose left the phone box. The sun had disappeared behind a building, casting the street in an inky shadow. The falling temperature caused her to stuff her hands into her coat pockets. Shops were closing, and the sidewalks were beginning to fill with people on their way to shelters. Will the Luftwaffe ever stop? As she descended the military-guarded stairs leading thirty feet below the Treasury building, she wondered if the war room bunker could sustain a direct bomb strike. She shivered, and then shook the thought from her mind.

She returned to Room 60, where the majority of the women had gone home for the evening. Tonight’s crew consisted of two typists, including Rose, and three switchboard operators. Two hours into the shift, the lights on the switchboards flickered. The operators jammed their plugs into jacks, connecting communications. The Luftwaffe have been spotted over the Channel. Rose typed faster. The air raid sirens sounded, producing a muffled, horrid howl—even deep below the building—causing goose bumps to crop up on her arms. Fifteen minutes later, the sirens stopped. Under the patter of her key strokes, Rose heard the muted rumble of bombs erupting over the city. She pulled the carriage return lever on her typewriter. God help us.

Movement in the corridor caused Rose to look up. Two military officers, whom she recognized as General Ismay and Commander Thompson, passed by the doorway on their way to the Map Room. Footsteps echoed in the corridor. A door slammed against its frame. The switchboard operators increased their pace of answering calls and plugging their cords into a maze of circuitry. Her breath quickened. She pulled a finished paper from her typewriter and stapled together a report.

The Luftwaffe raid lasted well past midnight. At 1:34 a.m. the all-clear signal sounded. The women in Room 60, except for Rose and a thirty-one-year-old switchboard operator named Margaret, went to the dock to get a few minutes of rest. Margaret handled periodic calls to the switchboard, while Rose finished drafting a report. Struggling to remain alert, she ceased typing and opened her desk drawer.

“We made it through another air raid, Charlie,” Rose said, staring into the drawer.

“To whom are you speaking?” a low voice asked.

Rose looked up. Standing in the doorway was Prime Minister Winston Churchill, wearing a charcoal wool coat and felt hat with a curved brim. A half-smoked cigar was clamped between his molars, making his left jowl appear swollen. Her heart rate accelerated. She glanced to Margaret, who was taking an incoming call. Tired and unable to think of an excuse for talking to herself, Rose stood—her chair scraping the floor—and said, “A picture of my brother, sir.”

Churchill drew on his cigar, causing the tip to glow, and then stepped into the room.

Rose’s knees quivered. She gripped her desk with her hands. Churchill had never entered Room 60 while Rose was working, and his advisors rarely, if ever, paid a visit. Although the typists produced loads of documents for his staff, their work—both assignments and finished documents—went through the supervisor, Gladys Goswick. Direct interactions between the civilian women and Churchill’s advisors were, by protocol, extremely limited.

“May I,” Churchill said, stepping to her and gesturing to the open drawer.

She nodded.

Churchill looked at the photograph.

“It’s my brother, Charlie, when he was a child. We’re not permitted to display pictures on our desks, so I keep it in my drawer.” Rose drew a jagged breath, taking in the scent of burnt tobacco. “He was killed in August when his plane was shot down over the Channel.”

Churchill raised his head. “What is your name?”

“Rose Teasdale, sir.” Her heart hammered against her rib cage.

“Miss Teasdale,” Churchill said. “I’m deeply sorry for the death of your brother. His valor to protect this island from Nazi tyranny will forever live in the hearts of our people.” He paused, removing the cigar from his mouth. “Britain will not forget Charlie’s sacrifice. Nor will I.”

“Thank you, Prime Minister,” Rose said, struggling to hold back tears.

Churchill turned to leave but stopped. “Miss Teasdale.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please relay a message to our switchboard operator.” He gestured with his cigar to Margaret, who was transferring a call. “If Mrs. Churchill should inquire as to my whereabouts, please inform her that I am resting in my room.”

“Yes, Prime Minister.”

Churchill tipped his hat and left.

Rose, stunned and standing by her desk, listened to the clack of Churchill’s footsteps on the stairway. He’s not going to his private bedroom. She’d heard rumors of Churchill observing Luftwaffe bombing raids from the roof of the Treasury building. What would he see tonight? Which sections of the city are destroyed? How many people have been killed?

Despite Churchill having a staunch, brash reputation, she believed that he wholeheartedly cared about the people of Britain. And that he was the right leader to help the world to survive Nazi aggression. Inspired by her encounter with the prime minister, she took out a sheet of paper and placed it in her typewriter. Instead of taking a break, she worked until dawn.

Finishing her shift, Rose left the underground war rooms. Outside, resilient Londoners were going about their daily routines, despite the roar of fire brigade engines. Smoke rose from various sections of the city, but most of the fires appeared to be in the vicinity of the East End docks. She boarded the train at Westminster tube station. In her carriage, she leaned back in her seat and tried to rest, but her belly ached with hunger. She’d foolishly skipped dinner and hadn’t taken a meal break during her shift. She looked forward to having breakfast with her parents and, even more, telling them about her brief conversation with the prime minister, which she didn’t think would breach any war room confidentiality.

Arriving at the Bethnal Green tube station, she exited her carriage to the underground platform and was relieved to find the shelter intact. She scaled the steps. Outside, a stench of burning wood and petrol filled her lungs. The proximity of blaring fire brigade sirens caused the hair to stand up on the back of her neck. She quickened her pace along Bethnal Green Road, but with each step the intensity of the sirens grew. Ahead, she saw a crowd near her home on Pott Street. A lump formed in her stomach. She ran, pushed her way through dozens of people congregating on the corner, and found the area blocked by a fire brigade. Firemen, their faces covered in a mixture of sweat and soot, sprayed water onto the remains of several buildings.

“No!” She pushed her way through the crowd on the sidewalk. “Let me through!”

The Teasdale Grocery, including the upper floor, where Rose and her parents lived, had been transformed—by what appeared to be a direct bomb strike—to a smoldering mound of brick and charred timber.

“Mum!” Rose screamed. “Dad!”

As she neared the rubble, a hand grabbed her arm.

“You can’t go in there,” a policeman said.

“It’s my home,” Rose cried. “Was there anyone inside?”

“They’re working to find out,” the policeman said, releasing Rose’s arm. “Stay clear.”

Rose maneuvered through the crowd, calling her parents’ names until her throat turned raw. She encountered several neighbors, most of whom had spent the night at the tube station, but none had seen her parents. After several minutes, the hoses were turned off. A fireman wearing a harness with an attached rope was lowered into a cavity that led to the basement of the Teasdale Grocery. Minutes later, he was hoisted to the surface, holding an ash-covered body. Limp limbs hung toward the ground. A medic rushed forward, examined the body, and then sadly shook his head.

Rose, using all her strength, broke past the policeman protecting the perimeter. She darted to the medic and fell to her knees. Despite the thick layer of soot covering the body, she immediately recognized the woman by the nightgown and length of her hair.

“No!” she screamed. A wave of nausea rose from her stomach, producing the urge to vomit. Using her finger, she gently dusted ash from her mother’s eyelids. She placed her head on her mother’s silent chest and wailed. When she gathered the strength to open her eyes, she saw two firemen removing her father’s lifeless body from the rubble.

Lazare Aron, twenty-three, with a square chin and thoughtful chestnut eyes, slipped on a hand-carved wooden prosthetic—covering the three remaining appendages of his right hand—and stepped into the kitchen. He found his father, Gervais, pouring coffee into ceramic cups, and his mother, Magda, placing slices of gray toasted bread onto the table.

“Bonjour,” Lazare said, taking a seat at the table.

Magda, a slender woman with exquisite posture and high, pronounced cheekbones, sat next to him. “Sleep well?”

“Oui, Maman,” Lazare said, despite having had two hours of sleep. A pang of guilt curbed his appetite. He hoped, for his parents’ safety, that they would remain unaware of his illicit activity. Not only was he breaking strict German curfew by venturing outside between nine in the evening and five in the morning, he was posting Resistance propaganda throughout Paris, a Nazi offense that would, if he were caught, result in his execution.

Their home on rue Cler in the seventh arrondissement, the neighborhood that contained the Eiffel Tower and Champ de Mars, was a two-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a Lutetian limestone building. Oak parquet flooring spanned the residence, with the exception of a woven area rug, brought by his parents when they immigrated to Paris from Warsaw, that lay in the living room. His mother’s paintings, which had once been on consignment at a Montparnasse gallery, covered the walls. A large bookcase displayed books, magazines, and stacks of newspaper articles, some of which had been written by his father. The apartment’s décor, Lazare believed, was created by the strokes of Maman’s paintbrush and Papa’s typewriter.

Lazare, who dreamed of becoming a journalist like his father, had not expected to be living at home at this stage of his life. But shortly after he’d graduated from the University of Paris in 1939, France and Britain declared war on Germany, following the Nazi invasion of Poland. Committed to fighting for his country, he attempted to join the French army and was rejected due to the limited use of his hand. Dispirited, he watched all of the able-bodied Frenchmen—cheered by Parisians waving miniature flags—march through the streets on their way to defend France.

The following summer, the Nazis invaded France. Thousands of Parisians fled the city, seeking sanctuary in the south, but the Aron family chose to stay. “I will not let the Nazis drive us from our home,” his father had said. Within forty-six days, Germany conquered France. The country’s young men, including all of Lazare’s friends who went off to fight, were killed or captured and taken to German prison camps. Lazare, with ire burning in his chest, witnessed a Wehrmacht infantry division—their polished jackboots clacking on pavement—march along Avenue Foch. And he vowed to do everything he could to liberate his homeland.

But his first priority was to help his family survive. Obtaining food and money was a constant struggle. The prospect of finding work at one of the newspapers, which were under collaborationist control, was not an option. After months of struggling to find employment, he landed a job as a janitor, after displaying to a supervisor how the handle of a mop fit perfectly in his wooden hand, to clean the floors and toilets at the Gare du Nord train station.

“How does it taste?” Gervais said, sliding a cup of coffee to Lazare.

He sipped, tasting a bland, broth-like liquid. “It’s good.”

Gervais grinned, causing his salt-and-pepper mustache to rise on his face. “It’s roasted barley, mixed with used coffee grounds.”

Their kitchen had once contained fine coffees, cheeses, breads, and meats. But now, the cupboard was bare, except for two tins of sardines—which they were saving for a special occasion—wilted carrots, moldy cheese, a sprouted potato, and three ugly turnips. Parisians were required to use rationing cards, classified according to a person’s age and food needs. In addition to the lack of food, the temperature in the apartment was horribly low. Coal was almost nonexistent, only to be found on the black market. Struggling to stay warm during the winter months, they often wore their coats indoors and slept under layers of blankets.

Lazare bit into his bread, hardened with wheat husk. “Provisions are getting worse. Train cars, loaded with France’s food, leave each day from the Gare du Nord station for Germany. Our people are starving. You’d have a better chance of gaining access to food if you left for Vichy France.”

“This is our home,” his mother said, dipping a bit of her bread into her coffee.

“Your maman is right,” Gervais said. “We mustn’t give in to the Nazis. In time, de Gaulle, with the aid of Churchill’s military, will regain control of France.”

What if Britain falls to Germany? “It’d be safer for you in the south,” Lazare insisted.

“Papers, which we don’t have, are needed to cross the demarcation line,” Gervais said.

“I’ll find a way to get you and Maman papers,” Lazare said.

“Assuming you can obtain fake identifications, do you plan to join us in Vichy France?” Gervais asked.

Lazare shook his head. I plan to fight for our freedom.

“Things will get better,” Magda said.

Gervais, with ink-stained fingers, gently touched his wife’s hand.

Prior to the invasion, Lazare’s father had been a successful and well-respected journalist at La Chronique newspaper. With collab-orationists in control of the media, the journalists were relieved of their duties, with the exception of Gervais, who had mechanical expertise with printing presses. The typesetter, who was responsible for keeping an unreliable fifty-year-old printing press running, fled the city when the Germans broke through the Maginot Line. Demoted from a journalist to a typesetter, Gervais now spent his days inking plates with Nazi propaganda on the same machine that had, many years before, stolen his son’s fingers.

Lazare had been eight years old on the day of the tragedy. He was on summer vacation and, rather than play kick ball at a park near their apartment, he’d asked to join his father at La Chronique. He loved everything about the newspaper business. The ringing telephones. The tapping typewriters. The enthusiastic journalists and editors who worked to keep Parisians informed of local and world events. But most of all, Lazare loved to watch the large printing press, located in the rear of the building. It was where everyone’s work came together, pressed through large steel rollers to form printed newspapers, which were packed into bundles, loaded onto trucks, and delivered to newsstands throughout Paris.

“Don’t get close to the press,” Gervais had said to Lazare in the printing room. But when Gervais was summoned to take a telephone call, Lazare found himself alone, with the exception of two laborers—one feeding paper to the press, the other stacking finished newspapers. To Lazare, the spin of the rollers was mesmerizing. The scent of turpentine and oil were intoxicating. As minutes passed, he stepped closer to the press. And when the laborers turned away, Lazare inched his hand toward the paper that was moving at lightning speed through the steel rollers. He’d only intended to touch the paper, simply to feel how fast it was traveling. But as his finger touched the paper, a laborer dropped a large bundle of newspapers, causing a loud crack. Lazare jerked. His hand was sucked forward. A sharp pain shot through his arm, and he collapsed to the floor. The laborer screamed, and then scrambled to shut off power to the press. As the steel rollers slowed to a stop, Lazare shrieked and clasped his crushed hand to his chest.

Gervais had wrapped his son, pale and shivering with shock, in his suit jacket and rushed him to the hospital. Emergency surgery was performed, but the doctor was unable to save his right thumb and forefinger. When Lazare awoke—nauseous with anesthesia—his mother and father told him the news. Lazare looked up to his father, his white, starched shirt stained with blood, and whispered, “I’m sorry, Papa. It’s all my fault.” Gervais hugged him and wept, his tears raining into his son’s hair.

Lazare, an angst building in his chest, placed his wooden hand on the kitchen table. He took a sip of coffee, and then looked at his parents, tired and hungry. “Paris is no longer safe for Jews.”

“This isn’t Germany,” his father said.

“No, it’s not. But the Nazis are in control, and there are many rumors about what they are doing to Jews in Germany.”

“We have French citizenship, and we have our police,” Magda said.

“I served in the French army during the Great War,” his father added. “They won’t let anything happen to us.”

The safety of Jews was a frequently discussed topic, usually initiated by Lazare. While he admired his parents’ grit and wisdom, they were, however, not exposed to the daily behavior of the Nazis at the train station. On many occasions, he had heard German soldiers hiss the word Jude when stopping citizens to inspect papers. Rumors were rampant about Jews being removed from government positions. The police, Lazare believed, were collaborating with the Germans. How long will it take before we can’t differentiate our police from Nazis? A month? A year?

“I need to get to work,” Lazare said, deciding he had said enough, for the moment, to influence his parents to leave Paris. “Thanks for breakfast.”

“I’ll walk partway with you,” his father said, standing from the table.

Lazare stepped to his mother and kissed her on the cheek. “If you barter more of your artwork today, please keep the Arc de Triomphe.” He pointed to a painting in a gilt frame that hung in the hallway. “It’s too beautiful to trade for vegetables.”

Magda smiled. “I’ll save that one for last.”

Outside, cold air bit at Lazare’s exposed skin. He buttoned his jacket and walked with his father, who was bundled in a black, knee-length wool coat. Few people were on rue Cler, which was eerily absent of exhaust fumes and the rumble of vehicles. It was apparent, to Lazare, that Parisians preferred to venture outside only when necessary, such as going to work—if they were lucky enough to still have a job—or standing in line for bread. Last year, the streets were a buzz of cars, buses, and taxis, and the sidewalks were filled with mingling pedestrians headed to markets and cafés. Now, the roads contained few automobiles, which were reserved for permitted drivers who were Nazi collaborators. The public bus service was greatly reduced, causing people, including Lazare, to forgo fighting for a seat and choose to walk. This meant that Lazare’s journey to work would take nearly an hour.

“I’ll walk with you to the other side of the river,” Gervais said, his hands stuffed into his coat.

“That’s out of your way,” Lazare said.

“I need the exercise.”

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