I left him on the bench outside and went up to our quarters, taking the stairs two at a time.

Martel was a mean, wiry fellow from the streets of Paris. He was probably also a full head taller than me. When I flew across the barracks at him, though, I didn’t even think of that.

I managed a lucky punch before he realized what was going on, a punch that split his lip and made him yelp. Startled, I had no idea what to do next. I didn’t expect to actually land a blow. He leapt up from his bed and I went the other direction. I wouldn’t get another lucky shot.

The others, though, blocked my exit. They bunched in front of the doorway, cheering. Behind me I could hear the hobnails from Martel’s shoes. I closed my eyes.

“What’s all this?” someone bellowed. The sergeant-of-the-week pushed his way through the crowd at the door. “Line up!”

The shouts cut off as seventy-eight boys raced to stand at the foot of their beds, me included. Martel still stood in the middle of the room, blood dripping off his chin.

The sergeant sent a glare around the room before fixing on Martel. “What happened to you?”

Martel, the rat, lifted his face. “I was attacked, sir.”

“By who?”

I bit the inside of my cheek but Martel stayed quiet.

The sergeant set his feet more firmly on the ground and crossed his arms.

Martel shifted.

“I asked you a question, private.”

From behind came, “It was me.” Chaffre stepped into the room, holding his side. “Sir.”

“You?” The sergeant looked little Chaffre up and down. The boy tossed in blankets, the one they couldn’t lay off pranking. “You hit him?”

“What can I say?” Chaffre cracked a smile. “Clearly it was a lucky shot.”

We all had to stand and listen to a lecture about respect and discipline and our moral duty to our fellow soldier. Chaffre didn’t seem to mind; he wore that sly little smile. Martel looked like he swallowed a lemon. In the end, Chaffre was hauled off for a week in the camp’s Salle de Prison, but not before he threw me a wink.

It had been a year since I’d been back to Paris and my old haunts, a year since I entered the army, but it felt like a decade. Back then my biggest worry had been whether I had enough sous left at the end of the week for a bottle of wine. Now, after July, the month of assassinations, the streets of Paris buzzed with uneasiness.

In the spring, Gaston Calmette, the fierce editor of Le Figaro, was shot six times in his office by the Minister of Finance’s irate wife. Was that what France had come to, where the written word could drive someone to murder? And then, in June, the Austrian Archduke was assassinated in Sarajevo. Whispers were going through the barracks even before Austria declared war on Serbia. We polished our boots and wrote to our mamans.

Paris ran with emotion. All leaves had been canceled, but I wasn’t the only one who bribed the adjutant sergeant and bought an overnight train ticket. I went by Uncle Jules’s apartment to visit Véronique and the parrots. I needed to escape the whispers on the street.

No one dared breathe the word “war,” but everyone thought it. Russia mobilized, the newspapers said. Would we? Walking down the Rue de la Montagne Sainte-Geneviève, I could feel eyes on me, on my uniform still crisp and officious. I kept my chin to my chest and wished I didn’t have it on.

Then Jean Jaurès, the antimilitarist who was France’s hope for staying out of the war, was shot over his dinner at the Café du Croissant.

Suddenly, the streets weren’t as quiet. No matter what you thought of Jaurès, his death meant something. Some wrung their hands in relief. With Jaurès out of the way, we could push forward to war. And those who opposed it right alongside Jaurès, they mourned and they feared. All of Paris held its breath.

Maman, come to see me? I’d telegraphed. I only have today. Though she hated the city, she came with Papa. She brought me a rose from Mille Mots, a little reminder that somewhere in France it was the same summer it had always been.

As Paris waited, we sat in Café du Champion, waiting, too. Gaspard let us have the table in the back, the one I used to hunch over between shifts with my hurried suppers. Three untouched cups of coffee cooled. They’d pulled their chairs close, on either side of me, and held hands across the table. Maman blinked a lot, Papa cleared his throat and tugged at his beard, and I watched the door. When it happened, we’d know.

“Will you write to me, Maman?” I asked, not knowing what else to say to fill the silence.

Blinking away tears, she shook her head. “You’re not going anywhere.” She wore a little hat, tied through with pale blue ribbons. In it, she looked years younger. “You won’t need me to write you.”

Papa squeezed her hand. “She’ll write to you. I promise.”

“And if you happen to get any letters from…” I pulled the rose closer. “Well, if you do, will you send her my address?”

It had been too long since I’d heard from Clare. A year and a half and I still wrote her, but nothing came in return.

Maman caught tears on her cuff. “She’ll write, mon poussin.” She straightened. “She’ll write and tell you all about her journey.”

I didn’t want to think about all of the reasons Clare might not return, all of the tropical diseases and ailments that could befall her. Malaria, trypanosomiasis, river blindness, dengue fever. Snake bites. Lions. Rushing rivers. Something could’ve happened years ago and I wouldn’t know. Who would think to contact me? Who in the Laghouat general post office would do anything with the stack of waiting letters but throw them away?

A boy leaned around the doorway, panting. “Gaspard!” His hair hung sweaty on his forehead. “It’s time.”

Gaspard swung his towel up over his shoulder and came out from behind the bar. He looked grim. He had a son my age. He had every reason to look grim.

“Luc.” Maman caught my hand as I stood. “Don’t go,” she said in English.

I kissed her forehead in reply.

Papa and I followed Gaspard out onto the street, to a freshly pasted poster. Above a pair of crossed tricolor flags, stark black letters announced: ARMÉE DE TERRE ET ARMÉE DE MER: ORDRE DE MOBILISATION GÉNÉRALE. Paste dripped down, smudging the handwritten date. Tomorrow we were to report to our units.

Crowds were starting to gather around the poster, men bleak-faced, women quietly clutching up the fronts of their coats. I swallowed and tried to pretend that I wasn’t completely terrified.

Papa stood behind me, still tugging at his beard. It’s what he always did when he was thinking far too hard about something. At forty-nine, he was still in the territorial reserves. I could see his fingers already tracing against the side of his leg. He would have to learn to paint war now.

“Papa…” I started. “I don’t know…” But I couldn’t say it. I couldn’t confess, not to my papa who was French to his core, that I felt more fear than patriotism. That I was confused and exhausted and wanted nothing more than to lie in Maman’s rose garden and sleep for a hundred years.

He clapped a hand on my shoulder. He didn’t need me to say it. “Trust in France.” He straightened his hat. “It’s all we can do.”

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to not be afraid of what came next. The past months of marching and studying and falling asleep in lectures, and we were no closer to being soldiers. And yet, with that paste-smeared poster on the wall, suddenly we were. Just like that.

With another long look at the poster, Papa returned into the café, his fingers still tracing the side of his leg.

Around me I could hear sobs between the murmured chatter. Mothers held onto young boys’ arms. Fathers stood stoically, looking everywhere but at the dripping poster. Sweethearts clung together, touching cheeks, faces, mouths. Straight down the street, a boy, much too young for the army, marched with a tattered flag above his head. “Viva la France!” he shouted.

Suddenly cold, I went back into the café.

Maman was gone. She must have slipped away while we were outside. Papa sat alone at our table, drinking the now ice-cold coffee. In front of him were two glasses of dark cognac and a bottle.

“She wanted to leave before you said goodbye.”

I wouldn’t have been able to turn and walk away from Maman’s tears. “I understand.”

“We must make a pact,” he said, pushing one glass to me. “If we go, go quickly. For your maman.”