Page 55

A commotion breaks out at the other end of the carriage—one of his fellow thugs is dragging a young woman from her seat. She is kicking and screaming.

“Give me a hand!” the other Militia man calls out.

Tina sits holding up her documents, frozen, not knowing how the man in front of her will respond—help his colleague, or turn his attention back to her. Suddenly he moves to help his colleague. Slowly, Tina turns to watch the two of them bundle the woman—still kicking, still screaming—off the train. The door closes. The train pulls out of the station.

She closes her eyes. Breathes slowly. Three days. Three dangerous days. But she has what they need and now she’s almost home. The mission is nearly complete. She doesn’t allow herself to think of what has happened to the young woman.

That evening, Louis, Andrée, and Agent stand in the kitchen as Tina unwraps the camera.

Agent examines it carefully. It’s in perfect condition. “A Leica,” Agent says admiringly. “This will go to our best photographer. The resolution on these is extraordinary. We’ll be able to document German fortifications in detail London has never seen before.”

“And the film?” Andrée asks.

“Ten rolls. Enough for over three hundred photographs if used carefully.” Louis opens one of the small boxes, examines the film canister but doesn’t open it. “This is excellent work, Tina. Dangerous, but excellent.”

“I won’t do it again,” Tina says firmly. “Three days was too many. The locals were suspicious. The Gestapo was watching. We were lucky.”

“Agreed,” Agent says. “Next collection, we use a different location, different operative. We can’t risk patterns.”

From the other room, piano music drifts. Josie, doing her evening practice. Bach tonight. The Minuet in G major. They listen. It’s light and hopeful. She is unaware of what her grandmother has just risked.

This is the Resistance. Not glorious. Not dramatic. Just dedicated people taking calculated risks, day after day, hoping that somehow, eventually, it will all add up to change the course of the war.

“I’ll distribute these tomorrow,” Agent says, wrapping the camera again.

“Good,” Louis says. “And Tina . . .”

“I know. No more three-day missions. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“I was going to say thank you. What you did took courage. Real courage.”

Tina reaches for his hand. “We all do what we must. For Paris. For France. For the child in the next room who deserves to grow up free.”

The music continues. Josie finishes the minuet, repeats a tricky phrase, slowly, and again faster. Practicing. Learning. Growing. Living.

And in the kitchen, four conspirators sit with a stolen camera, planning how to use it to fight back.

Chapter Seventeen

On a Sunday morning in June 1943, the dawn quiet of the Levallois apartment is shattered by hysterical screaming.

Andrée, Tina, and Louis burst from their bedrooms, wrapping robes around their nightwear. They fight to get into Josie’s room first.

The screaming continues. “Nooo! I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“Josie, it’s all right. It’s all right. It’s just a nightmare. You’re safe.” Andrée speaks in hushed tones as she attempts to hold Josie, who is sitting up in her bed, her arms thrashing and legs kicking under the covers. Her hair, wild, covers her face.

“Josie, you’re with me, Tata Andrée. Everything’s going to be all right. Shush now. Come on, Josie. There’s my girl.”

“Josie, we’re all here,” says Tina from the end of the bed. “Grand-Père’s here with me. We’re not going to let anything harm you.”

Slowly, Josie calms down, collapsing into Andrée’s embrace. Tina holds her hands, soothing, comforting her taut fingers.

As the sobs subside, Andrée pushes Josie’s hair from her face, pulling it back over her shoulders. When she tucks it behind her ears, Josie’s puffy red face is revealed.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” she gulps. “How could I?”

“Josie, ma petite, you’ve done nothing wrong. Nothing. It was just a nightmare,” Louis says gently.