Julien was fourteen, tall, lanky, darkly handsome, and completely unaware of his good looks. Lately, he was in a constant state of fury. Apparently, no one cared what he thought or felt or wanted. It was expected he would become a mathematician, like his father, but he had other ideas. He had always wished to be a painter, but since the German occupation, all he could think of was joining the Resistance. His mother had thrown a fit at the very idea. He was too young, and, anyway, he was needed at home. To do what? he wondered resentfully. Chase the mice in the garden, collect plums from their fruit tree, study the universe from the confines of his grandfather’s library? He pretended to be who he wasn’t to appease his mother, as he had since he was a small child, for she took his good behavior for granted, not knowing his rebel soul resented every minute. His brother, Victor, called him a mama’s boy and an enfant gâté, a spoiled child.

“And you?” Julien had snapped at Victor, who was seventeen and did little but sit around the house in a state of gloomy rage, forced to hide in the attic whenever anyone came to the door, because his mother feared he would be taken to a forced labor camp. “What makes you more of a man?”

They’d almost come to blows then, but fortunately Victor, afraid he might hurt his brother if they had it out, stalked away. “She’ll always tell you what to do, until you refuse to listen. That’s when you’ll know you’re a man.”

Julien watched the visitors from the corridor, glad that Victor wasn’t here to take over, as he so often did. There was something about the girl that struck Julien immediately, her long legs, her short cropped hair, her luminous, intelligent face, the immense sadness in her eyes. He had no idea who she or her companion might be, but at least something interesting was happening. Something that might wake up this sleepwalking household in which they were not to discuss burning bridges, or the convoys of soldiers, or the signs on restaurants that declared No admittance to Jews.

Julien ducked into the kitchen, where he grabbed a handful of plums meant for that evening’s dessert. His mother was not yet aware that their housemaid, Marianne, had vacated her position that morning, leaving notes for Julien and Victor. She had been deeply attached to the household, and to the boys in particular, for she wasn’t much older than Victor, four or five years at most. Her destination was the Protestant village of Le Chambon-sur-Lignon, near the farm where her elderly father lived alone. Before going, she had scrubbed the stove in the kitchen and made up the beds with fresh linens. You should leave, she had written to both boys. It’s not safe here anymore.