Guilt swelled in Ollie’s head. He hated placing this woman at risk. But considering his physical condition, he didn’t have much choice.

She looked at him. Dark bags sagged under her eyes. “The Nazis have pillaged our country. They’ve killed most of our soldiers, and the ones lucky enough to only be captured were sent away to prison camps. We’re starving, waiting in endless lines for morsels of bread while they eat our meat, drink our wine. Even our police have become cowards, preferring to collaborate rather than fight.” She tapped out her cigarette in a clay ashtray and took another from her pocket. “Nazi flags hang from our streets, even our schools.”

Ollie adjusted the sling around his neck. The air turned thick. He couldn’t imagine what Madeleine must be going through. A prisoner in her own country.

Madeleine pulled up the sleeves of her sweater, exposing her bony wrists, and lit her cigarette. “You remind me of my twin boys, Marius and Marcel.”

“How’s that?” Ollie asked.

“Committed to fight for a belief, despite the cost.” Smoke rose from her cigarette and spread over the ceiling. “They were good boys.”

Ollie pushed aside the tools and took a seat next to Madeleine.

“Marius liked to read and dreamed of becoming a professor. Those are his books,” she said, pointing to a bookcase.

Ollie eyed the rows of books, looking out of place in the rustic cottage, like fine china on a picnic table.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Madeleine said.

“I’m not surprised.”

She tapped him lightly on his hand. “Yes, you are.”

“Well, maybe a little.”

The woman smiled. “My family was well educated. But we chose a simpler life.” She stood and retrieved a photo from the bookcase. “Marcel wanted to be a truffle hunter like Guillaume, his father. These were my boys,” she said, handing Ollie the photo.

Ollie looked at the picture of two young boys wearing pressed school uniforms. The identical twins were mirror images of each other. Standing beside the boys, a man and woman. “Is this you, Madeleine?”

“Yes.” She tucked gray hairs behind her ear. “I was once beautiful.”

“You’re still lovely,” Ollie said.

“Sweet boy,” she said, staring at the photo. “I regret I have few pictures to show you. They were handsome, strong, and, most of all, they were gentlemen.” She closed her eyes. “Marius and Marcel were killed in battle.”

“I’m so sorry,” Ollie said, sympathetically.

She nodded, returned the photo to its spot on the bookcase, and then took a seat. “My boys were born on the same day; they died on the same day. Together.” She inhaled on her cigarette and glanced at her fingernails, stained brown with nicotine. “It was hard to move on, especially for Guillaume. He would have gone off to war, despite being too old to fight, if I would have let him.”