On the third floor, she saw that the door to the Vizniak apartment was open. She peered inside.

The room had been looted. Only the biggest pieces of furniture remained and the drawers of the black bombé chest were open. Clothes and inexpensive knickknacks were scattered across the floor. Rectangular black marks on the wall revealed missing artwork.

She closed the door behind her. In the lobby, she paused just long enough to compose herself and then opened the door.

Buses rolled down the street, one after another. Through the dirty bus windows, she saw dozens of children’s faces, with their noses pressed to the glass, and their mothers seated beside them. The sidewalks were curiously empty.

Isabelle saw a French policeman standing at the corner and she went to him. “Where are they going?”

“Vélodrome d’Hiver.”

“The sporting stadium? Why?”

“You don’t belong here. Go or I’ll put you on a bus and you’ll end up with them.”

“Maybe I’ll do that. Maybe—”

The policeman leaned close, whispered, “Go.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her to the side of the road. “Our orders are to shoot anyone who tries to escape. You hear me?”

“You’d shoot them? Women and children?”

The young policeman looked miserable. “Go.”

Isabelle knew she should stay. That was the smart thing to do. But she could walk to the Vél d’Hiv almost as quickly as these buses could drive there. It was only a few blocks away. Maybe then she would know what was happening.

For the first time in months, the barricades on the side streets of Paris were unmanned. She ducked around one and ran down the street, toward the river, past closed-up shops and empty cafés. Only a few blocks away, she came to a breathless stop across the street from the stadium. An endless stream of buses jammed with people drew up alongside the huge building and disgorged passengers. Then the doors wheezed shut and the buses drove off again; others drove up to take their place. She saw a sea of yellow stars.

There were thousands of men, women, and children, looking confused and despairing, being herded into the stadium. Most were wearing layers of clothing—too much for the July heat. Police patrolled the perimeter like American cowboys herding cattle, blowing whistles, shouting orders, forcing the Jewish people forward, into the stadium or onto other buses.

Families.

She saw a policeman shove a woman with his baton so hard she stumbled to her knees. She staggered upright, reaching blindly to the little boy beside her, protecting him with her body as she limped toward the stadium entrance.

She saw a young French policeman and fought through the crowd to get to him.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“That’s not your concern, M’mselle. Go.”

Isabelle looked back at the large cycling stadium. All she saw were people, bodies crammed together, families trying to hold on to each other in the melee. The police shouted at them, shoved them forward toward the stadium, yanked children and mothers to their feet when they fell. She could hear children crying. A pregnant woman was on her knees, rocking back and forth, clutching her distended belly.

“But … there are too many of them in there…” Isabelle said.

“They’ll be deported soon.”

“Where?”

He shrugged. “I know nothing about it.”

“You must know something.”

“Work camps,” he mumbled. “In Germany. That’s all I know.”

“But … they’re women and children.”

He shrugged again.

Isabelle couldn’t comprehend it. How could the French gendarmes be doing this to Parisians? To women and children? “Children can hardly work, M’sieur. You must have thousands of children in there, and pregnant women. How—”

“Do I look like the mastermind of this? I just do what I’m told. They tell me to arrest the foreign-born Jews in Paris, so I do it. They want the crowd separated—single men to Drancy, families to the Vél d’Hiv. Voilà! It’s done. Point rifles at them and be prepared to shoot. The government wants all of France’s foreign Jews sent east to work camps, and we’re starting here.”

All of France? Isabelle felt the air rush out of her lungs. Operation Spring Wind. “You mean this isn’t just happening in Paris?”

“No. This is just the start.”

*   *   *

Vianne had stood in queues all day, in the oppressive summer heat, and for what—a half a pound of dry cheese and a loaf of terrible bread?

“Can we have some strawberry jam today, Maman? It hides the taste of the bread.”

As they left the shop, Vianne kept Sophie close to her, tucked against her hip as if she were a much younger child. “Maybe just a little, but we can’t go overboard. Remember how terrible the winter was? Another will be coming.”

Vianne saw a group of soldiers coming their way, rifles glinting in the sunshine. They marched past, and tanks followed them, grumbling over the cobblestoned street.

“There is a lot going on out here today,” Sophie said.

Vianne had been thinking the same thing. The road was full of French police; gendarmes were coming into town in droves.

It was a relief to step into Rachel’s quiet, well-tended yard. She looked forward to her visits with Rachel so much. It was really the only time she felt like herself anymore.

At Vianne’s knock, Rachel peered out suspiciously, saw who was at the door, and smiled, opening the door wide, letting sunshine stream into the bare house. “Vianne! Sophie! Come in, come in.”

“Sophie!” Sarah yelled.

The two girls hugged each other as if they’d been apart for weeks instead of days. It had taken a toll on both of them to be separated while Sophie was sick. Sarah took Sophie by the hand and led her out into the front yard, where they sat beneath an apple tree.

Rachel left the door open so that they could hear them. Vianne uncoiled the floral scarf from around her head and stuffed it into the pocket of her skirt. “I brought you something.”

“No, Vianne. We have talked about this,” Rachel said. She was wearing a pair of overalls that she’d made from an old shower curtain. Her summer cardigan—once white and now grayed from too many washings and too much wear—hung from the chair back. From here, Vianne could see two points of the yellow star sewn onto the sweater.

Vianne went to the counter in the kitchen and opened the silverware drawer. There was almost nothing left in it—in the two years of the occupation, they had all lost count of the times the Germans had gone door to door “requisitioning” what they needed. How often had Germans broken into the homes at night, taking whatever they wanted? All of it ended up on trains headed east.

Now most of the drawers and closets and trunks in town were empty. All Rachel had left were a few forks and spoons, and a single bread knife. Vianne took the knife over to the table. Withdrawing the bread and cheese from her basket, she carefully cut both in half and returned her portion to the basket. When she looked up again, Rachel had tears in her eyes. “I want to tell you not to give us that. You need it.”

“You need it, too.”

“I should just rip the damned star off. Then at least I would be allowed to queue up for food when there was still some to be had.” There were constantly new restrictions in place for Jewish people: they could no longer own bicycles and were banned from all public places except between three and four P.M., when they were allowed to shop. By then, there was nothing left.

Before Vianne could answer, she heard a motorcycle out on the road. She recognized the sound of it and went to stand in the open doorway.

Rachel squeezed in beside her. “What is he doing here?”

“I’ll see,” Vianne said.

“I’m coming with you.”

Vianne walked through the orchard, past a hummingbird hovering at the roses, to the gate. Opening it, she stepped through, onto the roadside, let Rachel in behind her. Behind them, the gate made a little click, like the snapping of a bone.