There was a pair of green-tinged iron shears left on a stone table. Monsieur Favre could hear the girls speaking now, and after a moment he realized the brunette with the hawk nose spoke German. The few words in French that she said were guttural, a crime against the language. The pretty blond one spoke German as well. They were both dressed in blue convent dresses, wearing black stockings and laced shoes. The blond was so pretty she caught Favre’s eye and his dark imagination. She was perhaps fourteen or fifteen, nearly a woman. He would never guess she was thinking about murder as she sat there in the lemony light. How to kill someone in the least painful way possible was on her mind. Would it be drowning or poison? The way to destroy Ava seemed painless enough according to her mother’s instructions. She was to remove the aleph in the word emet drawn on Ava’s arm, a single letter that turned emet into met, truth into death.

“What are you thinking about?” Rachel asked when she saw the faraway look in Lea’s eyes. They had become quite close, and although both were too wary to have a friend, they had formed a bond. She could tell when Lea was preoccupied.

“Would you kill someone if you were asked to?”

Rachel shrugged. “It would depend on who they were and what they’d done to deserve it.”

Rachel looked up to see the man observing them. She stopped talking and tugged on Lea’s dress. Perhaps she could guess what he assumed by the way he was staring at them, with a dark, wary expression.

He saw a Jew right here, right in front of his eyes, one who ate bread made with his flour at every meal. She had the nerve to raise her eyes, as if she were better than he.

The girls often broke away from the other students so they might converse in German, which made them feel as if they were back home. At first they had both wept at night, longing for their mothers, but they had become accustomed to their situation. Most hours were accounted for, and that gave them less time to mourn what they had lost.

“Act naturally,” Lea said in a hushed voice. She hoped they hadn’t given themselves away as refugees. “Can I help you?” she called to the fat man glaring at them.

“I’d like to ask your friend a question,” he said, gesturing to the brunette.

“I’m so sorry, but she has a sore throat and cannot speak.” Lea spoke brightly. Her French was excellent. By now there was not the slightest German inflection.

Monsieur Favre considered the blond girl. He felt sure that she was telling a blatant lie, but one so well spoken that for a moment he almost believed her. It was the look of terror on the other girl’s face that gave them away.