ETTIE CAREFULLY OBSERVED EVERY CUSTOMER, hoping someone would signal to her, but no one came for her. No strangers waited for her, no notes were dropped beside a table, no customers making eye contact. The only person who seemed to notice that she was alive was the beastly owner of the café, Monsieur Favre, who liked to stand too close while he put his hands on her waist, insisting she was too pretty to be a waitress. She knew he was a liar as soon as he said that. Not wanting to be dismissed, she swallowed her fierce dislike of Monsieur Favre and forced a thin smile onto her face.

“Your wife is much prettier,” Ettie said, even thought Madame Favre was a dumpy, ill-tempered woman.

The café owner backed off once his wife was mentioned, for Madame Favre was working not ten feet away. Still, from then on, Ettie slept with a knife in her cot. You couldn’t trust anyone, really, especially when you yourself were living a lie. Weeks passed and no one contacted her. She began to think Father Varnier had decided she wasn’t worthy of becoming a fighter.

Then one evening she left soon after the dinner hour to take a walk and everything changed. By then winter was closing in. She washed dishes for so long every day that her hands were raw from the harsh soap they used. “Don’t use too much,” Monsieur Favre always told her. He was cheap and preferred dirty dishes to the cost of soap.

Ettie felt free whenever she was away from the café. She often took long walks so she could practice her French with no one near to overhear her mistakes. The night was cold, and she hadn’t a coat, so she walked quickly, quicker still when she heard someone behind her. The more speedily she walked, the closer they followed. She’d left her knife in her cot and was defenseless. She had the urge to run, but on this evening she was Nicole, her alter ego, a French girl who had a perfect right to walk the streets of Vienne, who was as good as anyone, who had no fear of strange men, who had faith and said her prayers, who was convinced that God was looking after her and was there to protect her.

She turned to face her follower. They were stopped on a dark corner. He was more a boy than a man, tall and lanky, and she only saw a glimpse of his large, handsome features. He had a strong physique, although his shoulders were hunched, as though he were deep in thought and didn’t wish to be disturbed. He slipped his arm through hers and softly said, “Just keep walking.”