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Her hand covers mine. “No matter what Yvette says, he does not share with her what he did with you. I shouldn’t tell you this, but theirs was no great romance, the way she made it sound. He got her pregnant by accident and she showed up on our doorstep two months later. He did the right thing.”

I wrap my arms around myself, blinking away tears. “He told me he’d wait forever, Marie. Instead he got her pregnant three months after I left. So, no matter how you spin this story, he’s not the innocent one in it, is he?”

“No,” she says. “I suppose he’s not.”

* * *

I lie down that night, realizing something that is equal parts pathetic and terrible: I miss the days of captivity. Not all of it, but just these moments at night, when my head first hits the pillow. Because at least then I had something to dream about, something to want and to return to. There was hope, and now there’s none. Even if I’d died, I could have died knowing I was deeply loved by someone—all a lie, of course, but I didn’t know that then.

It’s weakness on my part, but I allow myself to travel to Henri’s bed the summer before, back when I was still wanted there. I nestle beside him, breathing in his scent of soap and fresh linen and whiskey. He’s naked under the sheets. My hand slides over his arm, his back, his hip. Already he is growing hard, and in a moment it will wake him, and he will roll me on my back, still half-asleep. He’ll wake slowly, his thrusts increasing in tempo, a hand gripping the headboard and his jaw tight as he tries not to come, waiting on me.

And maybe I should do it. Maybe I should lie here with my eyes open at last, quietly taking something from Yvette the way she now takes from me.

I shudder away from him instead, and return to myself, this pathetic husk of who I was, now sleeping in the guest bedroom upstairs while below me, he fucks his wife.

18

SARAH

I help Marie with the morning’s chores. When Yvette finally rises, she sits at the table and waits to be served. I ignore her but Marie is far too nice and asks if she can get her something. Yvette only wants coffee. She pats her stomach and says she doesn’t want to get too fat with the baby. “Though God knows his father doesn’t seem to mind my new curves,” she says with one of those smiles I hate.

I ignore her, continuing to pound the bread on the counter with unnecessary violence. Why do I have to stay until the end of October? As far as the war is concerned, the next months are calm. Drole de Guerre, they call it. The phony war. Yvette will be eight months pregnant at that point, so I’m sure they won’t want to travel to the United States yet. There is absolutely nothing I can do for them that Marie cannot. My teeth grind at the thought of remaining here, suffering the sight of Yvette’s hand on Henri’s, her head on his shoulder, night after night. It’s not even fair to ask it of me—after the way I suffered to get back to Henri, to get his sister home to him, have I not done enough?

And yet…what if I’m wrong? Cecelia wouldn’t have given me a specific date without a reason. As angry as I am, I don’t want any harm to come to Henri or Marie-Therese, though I can’t say the same for Yvette.

“I’m sorry he’s had so little time to spend with you, Amelie,” she muses, looking at me over her coffee mug. “I hope you won’t take it personally. This is just a very busy time for us on the farm.”

I stop what I’m doing. I haven’t seen her do a goddamn thing since I arrived. “Is it a very busy time for you?” I ask pointedly.

If she understands my implication, she pretends she doesn’t. “Very. Though I told Henri he must hire more men next year. It’s crazy that he’s working so many hours. Especially wounded the way he is.”

My work stops again. Wounded? I think of the way he holds his side every time he sits and rises. I’ve wondered about it but didn’t want to ask—it’s no longer my place and he’s no longer my concern. “You said he’d been shot.” My voice cracks as I say the words. “Hasn’t it healed?”

She waves her hand, dismissing it. “It’s fine. A scratch at this point.”

Relieved, I focus on the other part of what she said. “You mentioned hiring people next year?” I look from her to Marie. “I assumed you’d go to the United States once the baby was born.”

I don’t know why they haven’t gone already, to be honest. There were months and months where Yvette could have traveled safely, and they must have realized the window was narrowing. Why the hell didn’t they go?

Marie shifts uncomfortably, cutting a quick glance at Yvette and away. “I’m not sure what the plans are. We can’t do anything at the moment.”

Yvette’s jaw has dropped. “Moving? From France?” She laughs. “But of course we’d never move. Whatever gave you that idea?”

I ignore her and stare at Marie. After everything we went through, solely so I could get them to safety…they’re staying? Tears sting my eyes, and I’m not sure if they’re from rage or sadness. I whip the apron over my head and march straight out the door.

I go to the fields to look for Henri. I find him, sweat on his brow though the weather is on the cool side this morning. He looks older than his age right now.

He stops working when he sees me approach. There is a moment—there is always a moment—when a certain light enters his eyes at the sight of me. As if he’s forgotten about our time apart, forgotten what he’s done. And I understand it because there’s a moment, when I first see him, that I forget too. And then I have to live through the hurt all over again as I remember.

“Why didn’t you leave?” I demand. “You should already be in the US.”

His tongue darts out to tap his lip, the way it does when he’s thinking through an answer…or concealing one. “I just wasn’t sure about some things, and I doubt Yvette wants to go to the United States.”

“Does she want to die? Does she want your kid to die? Does she even know you’re half-Jewish?”

His jaw tightens. “Of course she knows. You think I’d conceal something like that—”…from my wife. He doesn’t say it, but the unspoken words ring in the air between us, and God, I hate him for them. “It was my decision, and what’s done is done.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m so angry at him, but that’s not what matters here. In four weeks, I’ll be back in my own time and I can deal with my anger and sorrow then. “So, what, exactly, is your plan?” I demand.