Overnight, though, political winds shifted, and the de Castellanes lost their wealth. Claudette had to move out of the compound and take in mending in order to survive. She lived alone for the first time in her life.

For months now, she had wanted nothing more than to set off on the road home. She listened daily on her landlady’s radio to the transmissions from France—no longer from the UK—a great sign of France’s liberation. Yet travel had been impossible while sporadic battles still raged in the South of France, and the German and American armies were exchanging prisoners after ending their war in North Africa. The Pyrenees crossings were dangerous; the main passes were clogged by refugees, and the local guides who ran the more treacherous routes through the mountains were themselves robbers. Nevertheless, Claudette had to rush back, not only to Benjamin but also to Raphaël, who would be looking for her in Valençay. All this time she had hoped that he and his father had stopped running and were safe in one of the labor camps. At least they would have had food and shelter.

Before strapping on her brace, she adjusted the two flat cloth pouches under each leather strap. They held all her money in paper and coins. No matter how harsh the circumstances, she had guarded this cache. On the duchess’s advice, Claudette had exchanged the old francs for pesetas, reichsmarks, and American dollars. This money was her future; it would fund a new printing shop for Raphaël. For the expenses on her journey, she would carry only a few Allied-issued banknotes, because their value diminished as soon as they were printed.

The duchess fetched Claudette in her family’s car, which was driven by Carlos, the chauffeur who doubled as a bodyguard when the de Castellane females left the compound. At the train station, he went out to purchase the ticket with Claudette’s money. She watched with trepidation the hordes of people streaming in and out of the massive building that was about to swallow her into its cavity and spit her out on some train to a frightening journey, alone. Her stomach tightened at the thought of the bodies about to jolt her and knock her to the ground.

She wanted to pray to Mary and Christ and remind them of her years of devotion. But she had learned from Mathéo’s tutor, who had escaped with her and turned out to be Jewish, that to adopt his faith, she must forsake Jesus and Mary. She must stick to the one and only God.

It had been a monumental decision. Declaring a wish to become Jewish was meaningless, Jules Hallberg said, confirming what Madame Galvin had hinted at. Claudette first had to give up Jesus and Mary.

How could she? They had been her saviors. They had comforted her throughout her growing-up years when she had been subject to the cruelty of her family and strangers alike. Jesus and Mary had stood up to both priests’ hard judgments of her. She couldn’t stop believing in their love; she could only force herself not to pray to them.

“Give this to Monsieur Vincent, please.” The duchess’s eyes reddened as she handed Claudette an envelope. “My late husband’s German pension evaporated with the Third Reich’s defeat. His title is worthless. I won’t return to Valençay.”

Not return? Disappointment flooded Claudette. She had counted on resuming her former employment and enjoying again the duchess’s patronage. “Will you stay here?”

“Paris. Remember my old friend who married into the Galvin family? I’m waiting for word that I can sell cosmetics in their department store.”

Claudette couldn’t imagine the elegant duchess as a saleswoman serving her former high-society friends, who would sigh or snicker at her downfall.

“I was delusional to think that my good fortune could last forever. Whoever imagined that one day I’d be broke?” The duchess’s voice caught in her throat.

Claudette held her hand. Broke. Broke wasn’t the same as poor; it just meant rich people had less money than they were used to. “You still own Valençay,” she offered.

“And how can I maintain it? With what money? My advisers tell me that I must gift it to the state in order to waive the taxes I owe.”

“What about all the fine furniture and silver we hid? And the art? Can’t you sell them?”

“I don’t even know what the Nazis stole and what’s left.” The duchess blew her nose with a muslin handkerchief that Claudette had embroidered with her initials. “Anyway, who can afford to buy such relics? And the Louvre will soon claim back its own collections.”

For a while, neither spoke.

Claudette broke the silence. “What happened to Madame Galvin? I saw her the afternoon she was taken. The officer shot an older woman who tried to help her.”

“Her mother. It was a horrible day.” The duchess dabbed at her eyes. “Luckily, her husband’s family rescued her from the French labor camp and sent her to America before she was transported.”

“Transported to where?”

“To a death camp in Germany or Poland.” The duchess looked at Claudette. “Haven’t you heard? The Nazis exterminated the Jews. Like cockroaches.”

“Jesus and Mary.” Claudette clamped her hand over her mouth in horror. “Killed them?”

“The news is coming out as concentration camps are being liberated. A huge number of Jews were murdered. Many of my Parisian friends were among them. Writers, musicians, painters, patrons of the arts—”

Tears filled Claudette’s eyes. Raphaël had been correct to distrust those labor camps. How wrong she had been when she prayed that he and his father had found safety in such a place! Where did they hide, then? “That’s awful,” she whispered, now convinced that the Nazis had indeed murdered invalides too. But not Raphaël. He had understood the danger. He and his father must have hidden in some cave. Now she had even more of a reason to hurry back and set up house for them all.

The duchess’s face was pale. “How naive we were when we saw the Jews being rounded up or just disappearing.”

“But Madame Galvin had her baby in safety?”

The duchess dabbed at the corner of her eye. “A boy, may his soul rest in peace.”

Shock radiated through Claudette’s body. “She was planning to name him Benjamin.” Her own boy would forever carry the Jewish name for them both.

A beggar banged on the car window, showing an oozing amputated arm. Claudette waved him off before the duchess could glimpse this hideous display. He thrust his swollen stump against the glass, then stepped away.

The duchess turned her gaze toward the armed soldiers guarding the entrance to the terminal and sighed.

Whatever Carlos had done to obtain the tickets, he returned quickly. He handed Claudette the tickets and informed her that she would have to change trains in Toulouse and Limoges. It was unclear when or if there would be a train to Tours; the Maquis had bombed this main Loire Valley depot in November 1942 when the Nazis were about to cross the demarcation line. The Nazis had repaired only the tracks they needed to transport their troops southward, he explained.

“I wish you’d wait for the fall, when order will be restored to this mad world,” the duchess said.

“More months away from my baby?” She let Carlos help her out of the car.

While he unstrapped her valise, Claudette stood by the open door and bent to kiss the duchess’s gloved hand. “Thank you, madame, for your immense kindness and patronage.” Mist clouded her vision as she inhaled for the last time the duchess’s lavender scent and memorized the beautiful hazel eyes, the delicate nose, and the chiseled red lips of the noblewoman who had let her talent and creativity soar.

“God be with you and your child.”

Claudette sniffled. “Please keep me in your prayers.” Having the duchess pray to Jesus and Mary wouldn’t be a betrayal of the Jewish God.

Carlos elbowed his way through the crowded terminal, guiding Claudette. Disheveled people were stretched out on benches, families were huddled on the floor among their belongings, and long lines led to the ticket windows. Beggars hounded people crossing the vast pavilion with its vaulted, decorated ceiling that had been built for glory, not for this horde of humanity with their rancid stink of sweat and piss. Carlos supported Claudette’s arm with one hand and carried her valise in the other as they reached a gaping opening leading to train platforms.

“Be sure to tip the conductor so he’ll help you with your luggage,” Carlos said. “And get porters to carry it across platforms.”

Claudette clutched her heavy satchel containing food for three days—tostadas wrapped in wax paper with cheese and salami and two apples—and hobbled along the length of the waiting train, bewilderment filling her. The valise that Carlos was hefting was heavy with folded fabrics; the duchess had suggested that Claudette invest in them because none were manufactured in France and she could sell them at profit. Without Carlos, Claudette wouldn’t have known which platform was hers or what car to climb into. How would she manage two or three train changes?

This was for Benjamin, she told herself as Carlos pulled her up the steep metal steps into the car. He found her a window seat next to an old couple and hoisted her valise onto the shelf.

He touched the brim of his hat and departed. Her last protector was gone. Claudette clutched her wool shawl and two romance novels. She had no family, no friends. She was alone in the world. She had forsaken Christ and Mary. She couldn’t imagine what she would find on her arrival at Valençay.

If only she knew where Solange lived with her husband. Had she passed the war safely? By now she must have a couple of children. How wonderful it would be to have their children grow up and play together.

The Pyrenees were behind her. The Spanish border police hadn’t asked for Claudette’s ID; they had been happy to ease the pressure of too many European refugees in Spain. Claudette’s body ached after a day and a night of bouncing in place. The roaring of the wheels underneath her rattled her bones and joints. The trips to the lavatory were treacherous; she had to balance over an opening above the speeding tracks, a hole eager to catch her foot. Afterward, she pushed her way down the cramped aisle, holding on to the backs of seats. There was no place to fall—the car was crammed with people and packages.

The only point of interest in the voyage was the passing landscape. On her flight south with the duchess, the driver had been trying to outrun the Nazis’ southward advance, and Claudette had sat low in her seat. Now, heading back to her baby, she imagined Benjamin nestled on her lap as she narrated the sights: gorges dropping from the jutting cliffs, bridges and tunnels that must delight a little boy, and small fishing enclaves by riverbanks. How could she have explained the destruction the train was speeding by, the burned farmhouses, crumbled fortress walls, and bombed bridges?

As the train advanced north, the undulating green terrain became familiar. Claudette would have breathed easier except that she was about to reach Toulouse, where she would disembark, and get shoved into a sea of people in another huge terminal.

The conductor, whom she had tipped, came over. “I’ll find a porter to help you locate your platform—if a train is scheduled. If not, well, you’ll wait.”

“How long?”

“Until the tracks are fixed or a route around it is available. It’s a mess.”