The only time we were apart was in the evenings. Paris was not the glittering jewel it had been before the declaration of war. A dusk-to-dawn blackout meant the city of light was plunged into darkness. That was when Madeleine, who lolled about indolently during the day wearing one of my shirts, would spring to life, put on her black silk dress with red hibiscus, apply mascara to her lashes and red lipstick to her lips, and disappear without explanation. Again, I found this feline quality deeply seductive. When I asked where she was going, she kissed me tenderly and told me it was best I didn’t know, but that she would be back, in the early hours of the morning, and that I shouldn’t wait up for her. But I couldn’t help myself. I would stay up awaiting her return, unable to read or write or do anything other than pace to and fro in my room, in agonies of worry. Eventually, I would go to bed and close my eyes, mind whirring, until in the wee hours the door would creak open and she would slink in, smelling of cigarette smoke and alcohol, undress, and curl herself up beside me. She was small, and our bodies were a perfect fit, even for a single mattress. At sunrise I would wake and there she would be, sitting in the armchair, naked, reading Baudelaire, smoking a Salomé, the contours of her body streaked with rays of sunlight, and, seeing me awake, she would recite what she was reading.

Come, handsome cat, come on my flaming heart lie;

Sheathe the claws of your paw,

And let me plunge into your handsome eyes,

Where metal and agate alloy.

Then we would head out into the streets for our morning walk.

The German war machine rolled on, delaying its arrival in Paris by picking off the remnants of the French and British armies, cornered against the English Channel. The southbound traffic on the boulevards thickened, the traffic in the other streets thinned, and every day more shops were shuttered.

The following Saturday afternoon, Arthur knocked on my door. Madeleine was dozing on my bed, so I stepped out onto the landing. I presumed he wanted to inquire about our traditional Saturday-evening poker party, which had entirely slipped my mind, but instead he told me he was leaving. His well-heeled English girlfriend had managed to buy a car and they were driving down to Bordeaux. “There’s room for you too, if you want to join us.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“The French have pretty much capitulated, you are aware of that, aren’t you?” he said, seizing me by the arm. “The Germans will be here in a week or two.”

I hesitated, feeling foolish for throwing away this lifeline, an opportunity for which so many others would have willingly paid a fortune. “I’m not ready.”