Estelle reached for her hand and squeezed it. “But I haven’t lost you. Or Aviva. Or Serge. All we can do is hold on to what we have.”

Rachel nodded and looked back at Estelle. “Speaking of having things, you should be keeping more of the food you’re giving us—”

“Stop. You’re barely allowed to buy food as it is. I have no intention of watching your family starve.”

“But eggs? Sugar? I’m almost afraid to ask how you managed to find them.”

“Then don’t ask.”

Rachel frowned. “You were out again last night.”

“Yes.”

“Spying.” It was an accusation.

“We’re not having this conversation again.”

“Estelle, what if you’re caught?”

“Then you can have my apartment. All your art is in there anyway.”

“That’s not funny.”

“None of this is funny, Rachel. But I can’t just do nothing.”

“How much of what you see and learn from drunken Nazis is actually helpful?” Rachel demanded.

“You never know what crumb might turn a tide.” Jerome’s words.

Rachel frowned. “And that’s worth the risk? Crumbs? What if they kill you—”

“And what if we all starve to death before this damn war is over?” Estelle released her hand. “At the very least, being there gets me access to the kitchens, and access to a lot more than crumbs.” And those extra rations helped not only the Wylers but also the extra mouths Estelle fed in her own apartment.

Rachel’s forehead creased in worry. “I wish you would stop—”

“I will. When the war is over.”

“You should go south,” Rachel said. “Or stay with your parents. Are they still in Portugal?”

Estelle snorted. “They are. In fact, my parents’ solicitor sent me another letter. To inform me that my parents will not be returning to France during this—what did he call it? Ah, yes, during this troubling time,” she finished, trying not to sound bitter. Estelle wondered why her parents’ utter disinterest could still sting at moments such as these.

“They’re still your family,” Rachel chided.

“No, they’re not. They’ve been benevolent spectators of my life, happiest when they’re able to do so from a distance. You’re my family.”

“But I can’t get you to Portugal. Or anywhere else where it would be safer for you, Estelle.”

“It’s not my safety that concerns me, Rachel. It’s yours. What your family has already endured—it’s getting worse. As are the rumours. Of Jewish deportations in Poland that no one comes back from.”

“I know what you’ve told me. And I’m not sure where you even hear things like that. But regardless if it’s true or not, that’s Poland, not Paris.”

“For now. I’m afraid it’s only a matter of time before—”