That Bedford. Even empty it was a mule. The steering was brutal. He was a good driving teacher, unflappable, patient. That was unexpected. “Hang on tight and heave,” he would say as we thundered toward a bend and the wheel slipped under my sweaty palms. God, it was wonderful. This was 1942, remember. May was terrifying, June was worse, with German tanks at Marsa Matrouh. Marsa Matrouh, for heaven’s sake, where I’d driven Célia and our friend Nicky Barba at top speed for fun. If screaming at the bitch steering of a two-ton lorry took my mind off the war, then who could object?

—

Célia could, as it turned out. After the first trip, she told me to be careful.

“But he’s so natural,” I said. “So much fun.”

“You idiot,” she said. “That’s how they do it.”

We were on the beach at Sidi Bishr. Smoke was rising from the harbor. There had been another big raid two days ago and a cotton warehouse was still on fire. They had bombed the synagogue as well. Edouard Shama told us that Rommel had been looking for it for a long time.

I looked out at the sea that hardly moved, heavy as it was with milky light. No waves, just the odd slap at the shoreline. It was early in the morning. Maman allowed sea bathing on the grounds of healthy exercise, but only before nine o’clock. Lolling on a busy beach in one’s costume, being stared at by all comers, wouldn’t be remotely correct. We had been for our swim and now reclined, slightly damp, slightly sandy, tasting the salt on our lips as the sun rose higher.

“Do you know we’re not supposed to say Rommel anymore?” I said. “General Auchinleck has forbidden it. We have to say the German general instead.”

“Yes. It’s to bolster morale. You’re changing the subject.”

Mrs. Ingram had returned from her honeymoon quite glowing. Glowing, and somewhat censorious, it seemed.

“Ah, the married state,” I said. “It affords so many prerogatives. The right to inquire into a sister’s business, for example, as if it were actually the questioner’s concern. Give me some credit, Célia. Sébastien Khoury, for heaven’s sake. Everyone knows what he’s like. I’m not that much of a fool.” I sniffed the sea breeze. “Nothing will happen.”

“It’s not what will or won’t happen. It’s what will be assumed to have happened. We can’t get away with it, Yvette, families like ours. We behave properly. Maman and Papa are greatly admired for precisely that reason. You know this full well.”

—