1. Paris

Chapter one

Paris

Paris Police Headquarters at Place Louis Lépine, August 1941. The city had been occupied by the Germans for about a year.

"And you are Sarah Bloch?" The police inspector reads from the paper while sitting on the other side of the wooden office desk.

"Yes, sir."

"And how can I help you, Mrs.?" He raises his eyes from the paper, puts down the fountain pen in his hand, looks at me, intertwines his fingers, and leans back comfortably.

"Please, sir, I need a pass," I say, sitting upright on the hard wooden chair in front of him.

"To the Free Zone?" He examines me, his eyes lingering on my lips even though they're unpainted. I don't want to draw any attention to myself. His black eyes look like tiny beads that stand out against his light skin.

"Yes, sir." I look at his ironed blue uniform. Although his shoulders bare no officer rank insignia, shiny gold-colored buttons adorn them as precious coins that emphasize his high status. His black mustache is also neatly trimmed, as if it were part of his uniform.

"Besides this paper you gave me, can I please see your certificates?" His beady eyes continue to scan me while he hides under a blue peaked cap that proudly presents the Vichy police insignia. The same government that acts on behalf of the Nazis who occupied the city.

"There you go." I place the two temporary residence permits on the mahogany table, keeping them closed. Maybe he won't look at what is written in them.

"Mrs., why do you need a permit to cross to the Free France Zone?" He holds the upper cardboard certificate with his manicured fingers, opens and checks it. For a moment, he looks up and examines me, comparing my face to the photo attached to the certificate with two pins before he lowers his eyes again, and his finger gently runs over the black and white photo as if trying to see if I didn't try to fake it and exchange a photo with another woman who had this certificate.

"Please, sir," I look at the copper plate placed on the dark table bearing his name, "Please, Inspector Plessis," I slowly read his name and put my hand on the smooth table as if begging. My black and white photo in the yellowish certificate looks at me with a serious look. I haven't smiled for months now, and it seems that even if I try, I won't succeed .

"And you are Sarah," he reads my name from the certificate and smiles at me politely.

"Yes, Sarah Bloch," I answer him again and look at my black and white picture. How much have I changed since I took that photo in Berlin? My dark brown, almost black, hair is still pulled back in the same low chignon style, but my deep, brown eyes now carry a worried look that wasn't there before. The confident gaze I had as I sat in the studio chair, facing the photographer, has vanished, replaced by a haunting uncertainty. My fair skin and high cheekbones remain unchanged, but my pale face has grown slightly skinnier over the past year. The gentle curves of my small waist have also disappeared with the rationing of food, and my once medium-sized breasts have shrunk. I used to love my body more, appreciated its graceful lines.

"And where is Rebecca?" He opens the second certificate and carefully reads it before looking back at me. His black eyes scan my neck and my simple green dress. Its buttons are closed all the way to my neck, but his gaze lingers on them as if trying to get them open.

"This is my daughter," I hold my child's hand, who is standing next to me. I bring her closer to me, wanting her to be a barrier between me and his eyes scanning my breast through my dress's fabric. But I don't think it's necessary. The prominent yellow badge embroidered on my dress ensures the distance between us. Also, the ugly red stamp "Jew" stamped on our temporary residence certificate, which he holds in his hand, and my foreign accent. They all create a wall of distance and hatred every time I open my mouth and speak or show someone the certificate .

Inspector Plessis looks down at Rebecca, who stands next to me, and gives her a little smile. Her head reaches the height of the large wooden table. She looks back at him and does not smile back but moves in an almost invisible motion as she clings to me while I keep sitting on the simple wooden chair. She doesn't trust him either. I can feel her body heat through the fabric of her burgundy dress. I made sure to dress her this morning in her festive dress, although it also has a prominent yellow badge.

"And there's no Mr. Bloch?" Inspector Plessis asks me. I look around the large reception hall at the police station. All around, there are soft voices of conversations and typewriters ticking like crickets on a hot summer night.

"He's waiting for us, Erwin Bloch. He left Paris a year ago. We're married," I bend down to my bag while feeling Rebecca's small hand holding me tightly. "Here, I have those," I take a piece of paper out of the bag and place it on the table between us.

"What are these?" The inspector holds it, scans it, and starts reading.

"It's a letter he sent us from Madrid, Spain, a month ago. He's waiting for us there."

"Don't you have an official document?" He places the paper on the table and pushes it back at me.

"No sir, please, you must help us."

"And I understand that you are not French citizens, that you are guests here in Paris with temporary residence permits," he gives me a small, polite smile.

"Yes, sir, we do not have French citizenship. "

"And what about Mr. Bloch, who chooses to stay in neutral Spain?"

"My husband is a businessman, sir. He left for Spain for his business before they arrived. We will join him as soon as we get permission to leave Paris for the Free France Zone." I'm holding Rebecca's hand. She clings to me with the fear of little girls.

"You mean he left Paris before our German partners got here?" He's no longer smiling.

"Yes, sir," I look at him and smile as much as I can. I must be nice to him. He's the only one who can help us.

"And is he a French citizen? Has he evaded his duties as a citizen?"

"No, sir, he does not have French citizenship," I take mine and Rebecca's cardboard passports out of the bag and place them on the table next to our residence permits, "We all came from Berlin. Mr. Bloch also has German citizenship. He is thirty years old, two years older than me. Of course, he has his passport with him." I smile at him.

"And when did you arrive in Paris?" He holds my passport and opens it. It has a large round seal of an eagle holding a swastika.

"We arrived in March 1940, and Mr. Bloch left a month later," I whisper and hold back from crying, remembering our last moment together at the Gare du Nord train station. He wore a thick woolen coat while hugging me and assuring me that he would arrive in Madrid, get organized, and send us tickets to join him. Then he bent down to Rebecca and pinched her cheek lightly before turning and entering the train car. But a month later, the Germans invaded France, and in one moment, everything changed. Train traffic was stopped, and the wails of sirens against airplanes filled the city's air. A few days later, the Germans marched here, filling the Champs-élysées with the sound of their hobnailed boots . Why didn't I insist on joining him then at the train station?

"Mrs. Bloch?" I hear a voice and look up at Inspector Plessis, who is still holding my passport.

"Sorry, sir," I wipe a tear from my eye.

"It's okay, Mrs. Your situation is clear," he answers and stands up, still holding our passports and residence permits. "I'll see what I can do," he walks away from the table and disappears into the corridor at the back of the hall.

"Where is he going?" Rebecca asks me in German.

"He'll help us, honey, and please speak French," I stroke her black hair and adjust the beret on her head. "He'll take our papers and replace them with better ones," I smile at her.

"And after that, we'll leave and go to Dad by train?" She continues to speak in German.

"Yes, sweetie, we will travel by train like last year and meet Dad. Do you remember how we traveled together last year and arrived in Paris?" I adjust her dress and fight back tears again, remembering our last trip together as a family back then, when we left Berlin. "But only if you are quiet," I say to her. "You must be quiet when the policeman returns, do you promise?" I don't want Inspector Plessis to hear her speaking German.

"Yes, Mommy," she smiles at me, "did you see that our flag is hanging on the wall next to a striped flag in blue, white, red with something in the middle, and a picture of that man in the middle?" She asks .

"Yes, honey," I look up at the wall at the end of the hall. There are two flags side by side above the large windows. The French flag of the Vichy regime with the ax in the center, and on the side, the red Nazi flag with a white circle in the center and a black swastika. There's a large picture of the Führer between the flags overlooking the hall.

"There are many people here in blue uniforms and funny hats," she adds.

"Yes, sweetie, everyone will help us, and now be quiet," I look around. Other police officers are sitting at tables just like the one we're sitting next to, as they inspect documents or write down reports. On the side of the hall, several secretaries are typing away on their typewriters. "Remember what you promised me? That you would be quiet," I hold Rebecca's hand in mine when I notice Inspector Plessis approaching our table while carrying a large binder. I straighten up in my chair and smile at him.

"How old are you?" Inspector Plessis places his hand on Rebecca's nape; his fingers touch her black hair cascading over her shoulder, and I shudder.

"Five years old, sir," she looks up and answers him in French, but her German accent is still prominent.

"You're a cute girl," he pinches her cheek and smiles. Rebecca keeps silent but I feel her hand searching for mine.

"Thank you, sir," I smile at him.

"Well, Mrs. Bloch," he sits back in his chair. "I understand you came here from Berlin a year ago," he places our passports on the table and opens the thick cardboard notebook.

"Yes, a year and four months ago, sir. "

"A year and four months ago," he repeats and starts to write something down in the large binder. I can tell it's already full of names. Will he give us the papers allowing us to go south from Paris to the Vichy area, the Free Zone, and from there to neutral Spain? I tighten my grip around Rebecca's hand.

"Mommy," she whispers to me, "you're hurting me."

"Sorry, sweetie," I release my grip and stroke her hair again. In a few days, this year will be behind us.

"Mrs. Bloch, where are you staying here in Paris?" I hear Inspector Plessis and look up.

"We stayed at a hotel in the third arrondissement."

"What is the name of the hotel?" He continues writing in the large binder without looking up.

"We've been in it since we arrived in Paris a year ago," I answer, feeling my stomach and trying to buy time.

"And what is the name of the hotel?" He stops writing and looks at me, his black mustache shaking as he speaks.

"The New Republic Hotel," I reply after a moment, wondering if I'm doing the right thing, seeing how he writes it down.

"Mrs. Bloch," he finally looks up and puts the pen down, "and Rebecca," he turns his look to my daughter and smiles.

"Yes, sir," she answers back and smiles at him.

"Well," he looks at me again, "I checked your issue. Since you are both German citizens of the Third Reich, unfortunately, it is not within my authority to help you."

"But sir," I lean in and whisper to him, "we escaped from there, you know why," I refrain from pointing with my hand to the red Jewish stamp stamped on our passports and the temporary residence certificate, "they don't want us there. "

"Madam, you are guests here, and it is not within our authority to help you. For any assistance with your citizenship or a request for permission to move, you must contact the German Ministry of the Interior. According to the law, you are German citizens." He continues to speak without smiling. I notice his brown leather belt holding a shiny oiled pouch and inside a gun. "You must report any change of address to me immediately." As he speaks, his black mustache constantly keeps moving, and I look up at the large picture of the Führer at the end of the hall. He seems to be looking down at me.

"Mrs. Bloch," I hear Inspector Plessis say. I turn my gaze to him; he stands up and extends his hand in greeting.

"Please, sir," I stand up and shake his hand tightly. "We must leave Paris and meet my husband."

"The representative of the German Ministry of the Interior in Paris will be happy to help you," he releases his grip. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have other people waiting for my help." He politely smiles at me and Rebecca.

"Good day to you, sir, thank you very much," I collect the documents from the table, take Rebecca's hand and hurry to leave. On the way out we walk among the other tables and police officers in the hall. I avert my gaze as we pass under the picture of the Führer, who examines us from his place on the wall.

"Now, can we go to Dad's?" Rebecca asks as we exit the police station and head to the street, passing across the sentries at the entrance .

"No honey, we can't go to Dad's yet." I pull a handkerchief out of my purse as we start walking towards the Notre Dame bridge.

"Why can't we go to Dad?"

"Because he's not as good a man as I thought."

"That man with the mustache doesn't like us?"

"No, honey, it's not because he doesn't like us."

"Is it because of the yellow badge you sewed on to my new dress? Is that why he doesn't like us? Like the saleswoman at the grocery store who always tells us to wait at the end of the line until there's no food left?"

"No, my beautiful girl," I stop and lean in, look into her dark brown eyes, and caress her black hair. I start searching for an answer and fight the tears that threaten to burst. "This Star of David protects us," I caress with my fingers the yellow badge embroidered on her dress. "It is like a star that lights and guides our way," I say to her after a moment. "Do you remember when we walked in the dark and all the streetlights were off?" Since the war, there have been blackouts at night, and the streets are dark.

"Yes, and I almost fell, and you held my hand," Rebecca nods.

"And do you remember that the moon and the stars helped us see the way in the dark street?" I say, as I keep stroking her hair.

"Yes," Rebecca nods again.

"So the yellow badge on your dress is your private star that helps you find your way in the dark. Like the stars and the moon." I smile at her.

"Okay, Mommy," she smiles back at me .

"Remember that the yellow badge on your dress always protects you." I stand up, take her hand, and we continue walking toward the bridge. I wish my husband Erwin were here to protect me right now.

Before the Pont Notre-Dame, I slow down and tighten my grip on Rebecca's hand. There's a German guard post and anti-aircraft cannon on the other end of the wide bridge, protected by a wall of sandbags. The cannon's barrels are pointed at the sky as if they were waiting to hunt birds of prey should they come and attack. A German soldier stands outside the post and indifferently watches the people crossing the bridge while smoking a cigarette. Will he say something or stop me? Like that German soldier who stopped me a few months ago on the street and forced me to stand for hours wet in the rain while standing under the shelter with his friends and laughing?

I have no choice; I have to cross the barrier. I wait for a moment until two women pass me by, and then I take a deep breath, and start following them. I hold Rebecca's hand tightly, and she is forced to run as we cross the bridge. I want to stay close to them. My shoes are bothering me; they are already torn, but I don't slow down. There is no way to buy new shoes these days. The Germans take all the leather for their military shoes .

Across the bridge there's a wire fence with a narrow passage for vehicles and people. To pass, I have to get close to the German soldier who is smoking his cigarette. I don't look at him but look ahead at the back of one of the women walking in front of me. I focus on her dark blond hair and brown hat. I can hear my own footsteps on the cobblestones and smell the tobacco coming from the German soldier's cigarette. It feels like the yellow badge is burning a hole through the dress. Please don't stop us, please don't stop us. A step and another step, and we cross the barrier and move away from the bridge. I slowly start breathing again. Despite my hand starting to sweat around Rebecca's, I refuse to let it go.

"Mommy, there are flags everywhere," she says, pointing at the large swastika flags in the streets and at the city hall.

"Yes, it's just like back at home, in Berlin," I reply, and feel a lump in my throat. The Nazi flag is the only one she knows. The Nazis were already in power when she was born. I hate and fear this flag so much.

"Mommy, this says ‘Paris'," Rebecca reads the white, wooden road sign on the street corner. Its arrows are written in German, for the benefit of all the German soldiers comingtothecity. ‘Paris City Headquarters,' ‘Officer's Club,' and ‘Military Hospital' all point in different directions. Many German soldiers take their vacations here, carry cameras, and sit in the cafés next to the Champs-Elysées. I'm afraid to go to this area. I wish she would forget how to speak German and speak only French, so we stop standing out.

Only when we cross the main Rivoli street, which is full of German soldiers searching for souvenirs, do I walk down one of the smaller streets and bring two fingers to my lips, kiss them lightly, and brush over the yellow badge on my dress. I call it ‘The Star of Life and Death.' It is in charge of my life, watching over me. If they catch me on the street without it and find out that I'm Jewish, I'll be sentenced to death. It said so on the posters that were hung on the bulletin boards a few weeks after the Germans occupied Paris last year. I saw what they did to the girl they caught on the street a few months ago. They pinned her to the wall. I quickly turned and retraced my steps, as I tried not to scream when I heard the shot. "This star keeps me alive," I whisper to myself, even though most of the time, it feels like this star will lead to my death.

"Mommy, what are you whispering?"

"I remembered I forgot to buy something," I answer her.

"Mommy, I'm hungry. We haven't had breakfast yet."

"Soon, we'll get to the hotel, and I'll give you something to eat," I say, as we pass a grocery store that has a long line of women waiting outside. ‘We have butter today,' is handwritten in white chalk on the black wooden board outside the shop. I don't have any butter. I walk past the line of women and look at the last three, all of whom have yellow badges on their dresses. It's the law: Jews must always stand at the end of the line to buy groceries. Usually, there's nothing left when our turn comes, and only sometimes do the sellers take pity on us and bring out some goods they put aside.

"Mommy, look, it's a bear," Rebecca takes her hand out of mine and stops next to a bookstore in the narrow alley. She presses her nose to the glass. "Mommy, what's the bear's name?" She shades her eyes from the sun, and peers into the store .

I look to the sides to see if there are any policemen or German soldiers on the street. It's all clear. All I see is an elderly peddler pushing a wooden cart loaded with fabrics. I approach the shop window and look at the colorful books on display. They look back at me as if were a group of people engaging in an argument. "Sylvie, the bear's name is Sylvie," I smile as I notice the red book with the brown bear.

"He looks like he's a man walking on the street," Rebecca says in German and laughs. I notice at the end of the street two French policemen walking in our direction. They stand out with their blue uniforms.

"Come in," I hold her hand and walk into the store. It's best if we stay away from them.

"Good afternoon," the saleswoman in the shop greets us as she approaches. "How may I help you?" she asks. I notice her gaze fixed on the yellow badge on my dress.

"Mommy, look," Rebecca approaches the children's bookshelf. "There are more bears here," she points to other books.

"How much is this book?" I point to a book titled ‘Sylvie in Paris.' I need to make sure she learns French. She can't stand out so much.

"Seventeen francs," the saleswoman hands me the book, as she looks up at the street outside. I turn my head and see the two French policemen standing next to the store outside. What will the saleswoman do? Will she kick me out with some excuse? I look at Rebecca who's standing next to a bookshelf. She caresses the cartoon bear on the cover. She hasn't asked for anything in a year; she knows I have no money. I reach into my handbag and touch our temporary residence permits, ensuring they're there. I might have to present them to the police officers.

"Thank you," I put the book back. I don't have enough money to pay for it.

"Madam," the seller turns to me, "would you like to come with me and bring your daughter? I have a used copy. One of the customers returned it," she starts walking across the bookshelves. I take Rebecca's hand and follow the woman to the back of the store. "Come with me, look here," she says and leans in. I lean in beside her as she takes out a copy of ‘Sylvie the Bear' and hands it to Rebecca. "Take it," she smiles at her.

Rebecca takes the book and puts it in her lap.

"Say thank you," I tell her.

"Thank you."

"Wait here and take time to think if you want that book. It's used. It costs seven francs," she said, touches my hand and stands up. I follow her with my gaze as she walks to the front of the store and looks outside.

"Mommy, can we buy Sylvie?"

"Give me the book," I stroke her hair and open the first page. I read the dedication written in round handwriting:

‘Dear Claire

I hope you enjoy this book. It was made just for you.

Love

Mom'

"May I?" She looks at me with her dark brown eyes, and I think of those seven francs that I'll need .

"You can stand up. So, are you interested in the book?" The saleswoman returns.

"Yes, we will buy it," I hand it to her. "Thank you," I quickly take the coins out of my wallet and hand them to her before I change my mind. Rebecca is going to learn French; she has to. "Thank you for everything," I say to her as I place the money in the palm of her hand and look out the shop window. The officers are gone.

"Five francs; that's enough. I've had this book for a long time," she gives me back two coins. "Go to the left. They turned right." She says goodbye as we stand at the store's door a few minutes after she wrapped the book in flowery paper and handed it to Rebecca. I want to hug her, but it's not proper.

"Thank you for everything," I smile at her awkwardly, grab Rebecca's hand, and we walk into the alley.

On the street, among the passers-by, I make sure to keep Rebecca close by until I see our apartment hotel. We've been living there alone since I said goodbye to my husband Erwin at the train station. From a distance, it looks like a safe haven in a forest full of hounds with metal collars engraved with swastikas around their necks.

"Eins, zwei, drei, vier, fünf," Rebecca counts aloud while she jumps up the five wide steps at the hotel entrance.

"And now in French," I say to her .

"Must I? It's a strange language."

"Yes, you must."

"Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq," we count together aloud and enter the hotel hand in hand.

"Good afternoon," Angelina, the owner of the small apartment hotel greets us when we enter the reception room and close the door behind us.

"Good afternoon," I reply and smile at her as we approach the desk. She is about my age, twenty-eight or a little older. She turns and takes our key out of the dark mahogany mailbox behind her on the wall. I look at her slender figure and black hair styled in a chic updo. Despite the war and the rationing imposed on all supplies, from food and fuel to fabrics and shoe leather, Angelina always dresses in style and wears makeup. However, tights are no longer available. So she uses an eyeliner to draw seam-like line on the back of her legs to make it look like tights.

"Your key," she places the large metal key on the counter.

"No mail?" I ask her and look at the cabinet behind her.

"I'm sorry," she says. "What did you get?" She turns to Rebecca and smiles.

"A book."

"What is the book about?"

"About a bear," Rebecca answers, saying the word ‘bear' in German as she presses to her chest the book wrapped in flowery paper.

"I need her to learn to speak French," I say to Angelina quietly, "she hasn't met other children in a year."

"She will be alright, you will get all the necessary approvals, and everything will be fine. Meanwhile, maybe Rebecca can go to school here," she whispers to me while we look at Rebecca caressing her book.

"I hope so. She stands out on the street anyway, and her speaking German doesn't help," I answer. Even though I speak French, my accent is still pretty prominent.

"You'll be fine," she touches my arm, "Rebecca," she calls her.

"Yes?" Rebecca looks up.

"Every guest in my hotel leaves something behind..." Angelina reaches out and takes something small wrapped in a piece of parchment paper out of the drawer in the counter. "Take it," she reaches out to Rebecca.

"What is it?" Rebecca asks her.

"It's a chocolate cube that one of our guests forgot at the hotel." She tells her and whispers to me, "May I?"

"Yes," I nod, knowing no guest would forget chocolate at her hotel.

"Mommy, can I?" Rebecca turns her gaze to me.

"Yes, sweetie."

With a gentle movement of her small fingers, Rebecca peels off the paper and reveals the brown cocoa cube. She puts it in her mouth and smiles when she feels the sweetness.

"It's not real chocolate. It's just a substitute for chocolate," Angelina whispers to me.

"Thank you, thank you for everything," I say to her. I have no idea where she managed to get chocolate. Such supplies are no longer available in stores, or even with ration coupons. Getting chocolate in the city is impossible except on the black market or from the German soldiers. "Rebecca, did you say thank you to Mrs. Angelina?" I bend over to Rebecca, who is slowly chewing the sweet chocolate.

"Thank you, Mrs. Angelina," she smiles at her.

"Thank you, Mrs. Angelina," I say too, and take Rebecca's hand as we head for the stairs. She doesn't have any children. I never asked why.

"Sarah," Angelina calls out to me before we leave.

"Yes?"

"Do you remember the monthly payment?"

"Yes, I remember. I'll come down later and pay you." I smile at her awkwardly. I was really hoping she would wait a few days with the payment. I don't know what I'll do next month if we don't get the necessary documents.

"Mommy, come on," Rebecca holds the banister and jumps up the stairs that shake.

"Rebecca, be quiet," I rush after her. "If you quietly go up the stairs without disturbing the guests, I'll read to you from the new book."

"Remember what you promised me: not to talk until we enter the room," I whisper to Rebecca as we approach our room at the end of the corridor on the fourth and last floor. Despite the sun outside, the corridor is almost dark and lit only by a single electric light bulb attached to a wall covered in dark green wallpaper with delicate flowers. I notice that the wallpaper is torn in several areas. The broad room's brown carpet is also ripped in multiple places that reveal the parquet floor underneath.

"Mommy, come on," Rebecca whispers to me as she impatiently waits next to our door.

I stroke her wavy hair and open the door, locking it behind me. In the room, I approach the single window facing the inner courtyard and pull back the yellowish curtain, letting in the afternoon light.

The room is small and cramped, but it feels safe, as if protecting us from the outside world. Its walls are covered with floral green wallpaper. My bed is in one corner of the room, and Rebecca's is on the opposite wall. When we arrived here a year ago from Berlin, after escaping the Nazis, Erwin was with us for a few days, and for a moment, we were like a free family. But a few days after we arrived, he traveled to Madrid, and promised to send us tickets so we can join him. But then the Nazis invaded France and declared war on England. We are no longer together, and all the streets in Paris are full of swastika flags, just like Berlin.

I approach the dark wooden dresser, pour some water from the enamel jug into an enamel bowl, and wash my face, enjoying the cool water. Then I slice a thick piece of bread from the loaf I made two days ago and serve it to Rebecca. I watch in silence as she slowly eats it. I'll eat later.

A warm summer breeze blows in from the open window, slightly swaying the curtain. I take my dress off and have nothing but my camisole on. Although I'm almost naked, I feel less exposed without the Yellow Star of Life and Death stitched onto my dress .

Rebecca finishes eating the slice of bread and sits on her bed. She gently unties the thin rope around the book, removes the floral paper, and holds the book in her hand. "Mommy," she whispers even though we're in our room and we don't need to whisper anymore. I want to stand by the window, look out, and let the summer breeze caress my skin, but instead, I go over and sit beside her. I take the book and open it. Promises need to be kept.

"Sylvie in Paris," I begin to read.

"Mommy, what is it? Why did you skip it?" Rebecca stops me and points to the handwritten dedication.

"It's a dedication."

"What's dedication?"

"When someone gives another person a gift and writes nice words so that they remember who gave it to them."

"Did the lady at the shop write the dedication for me?" Rebecca looks at me smiling as her eyes sparkle.

"Yes," I reply, not wanting to disappoint her.

"What did she write?"

"Dear Claire, I hope you like this book. It was written especially for you."

"But my name isn't Claire," Rebecca looks at me awkwardly.

"Maybe she got confused and mistakenly thought your name was Claire."

"Okay," Rebecca says and turns the page to the drawing of the bear. "What does it say here?"

I start reading to her the story about a bear in the forest, whose mother was shot by hunters one day.

"Mommy, why did the hunters shoot his mom? "

"I don't know, honey," I take a deep breath and look out the open window. On the horizon, I can see a Nazi flag on one of the rooftop. It looks like a black dot in a drop of blood.

"Did the hunters have guns like the soldiers we saw on the street back then?" Rebecca looks at me and doesn't smile, her dark eyes wide open.

"No, these are other guns," I quickly answer. The hot summer wind blowing in through the window makes me sweat despite my thin camisole. What should I say to her? "The soldiers on the street have good guns. They don't shoot mothers," I add. Why did I buy her a book with hunters and guns?

"Maybe the hunters didn't mean to," Rebecca suggests, looking at the drawing in the book. Her finger covers the guns.

"I think I was confused," I stroke her hair. I have to change the story. "Sylvie the bear grew up in the middle of the Tiergarten in Berlin. Do you remember the big park we'd go to in the summer?" I try to distract her.

"With the big trees and statues, and the lake with the boats, where you'd buy me ice cream?"

"Yes, exactly. That's where Sylvie the bear grew up. He had fun in that cozy park." I remember the last time we went there when we still could.

"Then why did he go to Paris? Because of the hunters who shot his mother?"

"They didn't really shoot his mother. They just wanted to scare her."

"Why did they want to scare her?"

"So he'd run away to Paris, like we did by train. I got confused when I read it," I try to smile at her.

"Like the bookstore lady who got my name mixed up? "

"Yes," I reply. "Now you keep looking at the pictures, and I'll look out the window for a bit, okay?"

Rebecca nods, and I go to the water bowl again, dip my hands, and wet my face. Then I stand in front of the windowsill and let the wind cool my face. How will I protect her from the world? What good did it do when we fled from Berlin to Paris if the Nazis chased us all the way here?

Two boys and a girl are playing in the inner court between the buildings. They're throwing stones at an empty glass bottle they put in the center of the yard. Their laughter spirals like an evergreen climber plant, entwining the building's walls until it reaches the window bars. I won't allow Rebecca to go outside and play with them. It's too dangerous. A police patrol might enter the court, and I don't know these children or their parents. How would they treat a girl with a yellow badge, who speaks German and wants to play with them and laugh?

I turn around and look at her. She sits on the carpet in the center of the room, which is our safe place but also our prison.

"Mommy, I fixed it," Rebecca smiles at me. She has a pencil in her hand and proudly waves the book. I can see that she erased the name ‘Claire' with a bold line and wrote ‘Rebeca' over it with a spelling mistake. "He's not a boy bear either; he's Sylvie, a girl bear, I gave her a ribbon," she shows me a doodle she drew on the bear's head.

"Now, this book is really yours," I say, caressing her head. It'll soon be evening time, and after Rebecca falls asleep, I'll go downstairs and have a talk with Angelina. I'll also pay her for this room that keeps us safe.

The cool night breeze blows through the open window, and I lean against the windowsill and look outside. The blackout shrouds the city with darkness. All the streetlights are off. People are also required to close the blinds and curtains to dim the light. The moon has not yet risen, and I cannot see the distant rooftops. I'm afraid of the darkness outside. I miss Berlin and the days when Erwin and I were young and would walk hand in hand in the Unter den Linden boulevard on summer nights. It was lit with hundreds of lanterns, which seemed like little stars forming a path, and showing us the way. But this was before the Nazis came to power, and we had to flee. And now we're trying to escape again. Only this time, I'm the one in charge.

Rebecca is sleeping in her little bed. I close the window and the dark curtain, and feel my way to the dresser to light a candle.

All evening, we sat together and read the book, and now she's embracing it in her sleep. Her black wavy hair is spread on the white pillow. I watch her for a moment, observe her calm breaths and caress her forehead, making sure not to wake her up. Angelina is waiting for me downstairs.

I turn to my bed, bend over, pull out the suitcase from under the bed and open it. My fingers search through the suitcase's hidden compartment until I find the velvet bag and breathe in relief. Each time I look for the velvet bag in the suitcase, I have a horrible fear that it will disappear and, with it, our last chance to get out of this city .

In the candlelight, I open the velvet bag and spread its contents on the bed. A year ago, when we arrived from Berlin, it was heavy and full of gold coins, bills, and our family jewels. Now, all that I have left are a few gold coins and some of the jewels. This is what Rebecca and I have been living off here, without work and without certificates that would prove we are entitled to receive the food rations that the city's residents receive in paper coupons.

Which of the remaining jewels should I choose? I touch the wedding ring on my finger. I will never give it up. It reminds me that someone is watching over me even if we're not together right now. I look at the gold bracelet Erwin bought me for Rebecca's birthday. Should I give it up?Or should I use another heirloom we took with us when we left? I've already exchanged most of them for money and food. My fingers tremble, and finally, I choose a pair of gold earrings with pearls. I gently kiss them before I tuck them into my pocket and return the bag to the suitcase. They were my mother's, but I mustn't think about that. She will rest for eternity in Berlin's cemetery. She would want me to use them if necessary. I linger a few moments to wipe my tears away before I kiss Rebecca on the forehead and leave the room. I close the door behind me and go down the stairs.

Although it's still early, the corridor is quiet; I can't hear people talking in their rooms. All the guests are locked up in their rooms. I go down the wooden stairs as quietly as I can, not wanting to make any noise, even though we're safe here in the hotel .

I see a faint light at the bottom of the stairs, and I walk towards it as if it were a streetlight calling me to come and bask in its light.

"Good evening," I say to Angelina, who is sitting in the corner of the room reading a book by candlelight.

"Good evening," she smiles at me and puts the book aside. She invites me to sit in the chair beside her.

"I brought you these," I take my mother's earrings out of my pocket and place them in her outstretched palm. I feel the warmth of her fingers as they close around my hand, and she takes the earrings from me.

"Thanks," she says, "I'll see how much I can get for them."

"Make sure to haggle for them; these are gold earrings studded with Tahitian pearls. They're considered especially valuable because of their size and color."

"You know I always haggle, but it isn't easy these days." She examines them by candlelight before tucking them into her dress pocket.

"Yes, I know," I look at the locked hotel door. It's covered with a dark curtain in order to keep the blackout instructions.

"Like we agreed, food stamps and fifty-fifty on the black market?"

"Yes, fifty-fifty," I reply, knowing I have no other option. She is doing me a favor by exchanging my jewelry on the black market. Although she isn't Jewish like us, she's also risking her life. There's an image of a noose on the posters that the government hung all over the city; a clear warning for those who trade on the black market.

"I'll go tomorrow, and we'll see how much we can get on them," she smiles at me, "there's a trader who I think would be interested in them. It seems to me that he's not buying the jewelry for himself but for a senior German officer who wants to indulge his mistress."

"His mistress will surely enjoy them," I say bitterly, so glad that mother has passed away and won't know where her jewels will end up. For a moment, I imagine the German officer in his black uniform taking my earrings out of his pocket and giving them to a young woman in a transparent camisole. I'm revolted.

"Sarah, are you okay? Shall I get you a glass of water?"

"It's okay, I'm fine," I try to smile at her, wondering if she got the chocolate she gave Rebecca earlier from the same dealer. But it doesn't matter if Rebecca ate Nazi chocolate. At least she ate something . She has lost weight these past few months.

"How did it go at the police station?"

"I hope the inspector will be kind and help us," I reply, not wanting to tell her that he refused and sent us back to seek help from the Nazi's claws at the Ministry of the Interior. What if she thinks we won't have any money left or that it's risky to have us and banish us from her hotel? What will we do then? Who will offer us a place to stay? "He also asked us to provide him with our address here at the hotel," I add. "Maybe this is a good sign; perhaps he wants to let us know when he issues our permits for the Free Zone."

"I hope so. This must be a good sign," she smiles a little. "Are there any other places you can try?" she adds a moment later. She too doesn't trust the French policemen roaming the city with the German soldiers.

"Where can I go? I was at the British embassy a year ago and applied for documents, but then the Germans invaded France and occupied Paris and the English closed their embassy and ran away," I place my head on my hand. "Angelina, what will I do if the Nazis enter the embassy, find our immigration applications and come looking for us? I feel like they're chasing me."

"They're not chasing you, Sarah, and that happened a year ago. They probably didn't find anything there." She puts her hand on mine. "And there are other embassies. Spain has an embassy in Paris; they're neutral, and you want to arrive in Spain."

"He told me to be careful; that things are complicated, and that I should be patient."

"Who? Erwin, your husband?"

"Yes, in the letter he sent me," I look at her. "I'm waiting for another letter from him. He'll surely find a solution."

"How many letters have you sent him since he left?"

"Ten, but I have no idea if he received them," I say. I write to him almost every month and tell him what we're going through. Although it's difficult, I only give him hints about our situation. I don't want him to worry too much. This is what he expects of me.

"When did you last get a letter from him?" she looks at me.

"Eight months ago, but you know how it is today with the post office during the war. He's in Madrid, and the letter had to come all the way from Spain. It's not easy for him without us either."

"Yes, it isn't easy for anyone," Angelina sighs and leans back.

"What about your husband? Have you heard anything from him?"

"No," she shakes her head, "nothing. "

"He's fine, I'm sure."

"I'm not sure of anything anymore," Angelina says after a moment. "There's almost no food left, and it seems like the war will never end. The Nazis invaded Russia and are defeating the Russians. You must escape, you and Rebecca, while you still can."

"As soon as we get our travel permits, we'll leave. We won't wait."

"You know," she leans in and whispers, "have you heard of the Appelbaum family? They live here on the second floor. They..." She waits a moment before saying, as if hesitating, "they're also Jewish."

"Yes, I know them," I whisper back. I met them several times in the corridor and exchanged polite greetings. They're a couple, about ten years older than me, without any children. They're refugees like us, only from Belgium.

"They're planning to cross the roadblocks into the Free Zone without permits," Angelina continues to whisper and looks at the closed door, as if afraid that any minute now, it will open and the Nazis will rush in from the darkness. "I think you and Rebecca should join them."

"It's dangerous. You know what the Nazis do to people who try to cross into the Free Zone without permits," I look into her brown eyes.

"You should leave," she stares back.

"I'll go to the Spanish embassy tomorrow," I reply and stand up. It's late.

"Sarah, promise me you'll think about it," she holds my hand.

"I promise," I give her a bitter smile, "I'll think about it. "

"Wait," Angelina goes to the counter and pulls out of her purse several paper coupons for the food rations. "Take them," she hands them to me. "And here's another piece of chocolate for Rebecca," she smiles at me as she places in my hand the chocolate wrapped in parchment paper.

"Thank you for everything," I hug her and climb up the stairs to the fourth floor. Should I consider her idea to escape? Why isn't Erwin here to make decisions for us as he always did, being the head of the family?

In our room, I open the last letter he sent me yet again, wondering who he had asked to give it to me and how many hands had touched it until it reached me here at the hotel. The thin paper is wrinkled and slightly torn from all the times I opened and read it. By now, I know it by heart. But still, I reread it, delving into the words, looking for hidden meaning in them. ‘...Sarah, promise me that you'll be careful and trust me, I'll take care of you and Rebecca...' he wrote to me then. I'm his wife. I have to listen to him.

After I put out the candle, I open the window and look at the black sky. Why haven't you sent me a letter telling me what to do?

In the city's silence, I hear the footsteps of a German patrol, their hobnailed boots hitting the cobblestones, and I hurry to close the window and get into bed. But the softness of the mattress doesn't comfort me, on the contrary. I feel like I'm being sucked into a swamp, and my husband isn't here to help me.