"So tell me, Zoya." Paul took a bite of his lunch. "Why did you do it? Why did you leave the United States to come over here and nearly starve to death with the Germans breathing down your neck the whole time?"

"I knew about the occupation, but I didn't care." Zoya stared at her plate, trying to decide which entree looked the least unappetizing. "I simply had to be with my Maria again. After I lost Simon, she was all I had left."

He frowned. "But what about your children?"

"Nicky's flying bomber planes in England. Sasha..." She gave a deep sigh. "I've never been able to do a thing with her. You see, Clayton was over fifty when she was born, and she was always his little princess. It was hard on all of us when he passed, but I think she took it worst of all. She became very willful and rebellious. Then Simon came along and tried to be a father to her, but she would have none of it. In fact..." She lowered her head, and he saw that her cheeks were burning with shame. "I've always suspected that she wanted a different kind of relationship with him."

"In spite of everything, I still love her very much. When I decided to come to Paris, I begged her to come with me, but she wouldn't. She wanted to stay with her friends. That hurt me, but I couldn't force her." She took a sip of the watered-down pretend champagne they'd been served.

"How did he die?" asked Paul.

"He was killed in the war."

"But wasn't he rather..."

"He was forty-five. His parents fled Russia after losing their entire family in a pogrom. Then when he found out what was being done to the European Jews, he decided that he had to do something to try and stop it," Zoya explained.

"That must have been unimaginably hard, to lose two husbands without even getting to say good-bye to them properly." Paul took a sip of his drink, then grimaced. "Alice and I were high school sweethearts. She was the only woman I'd ever loved. We had three wonderful decades together, raised three children and lived to see our grandchildren born. Then several years ago, she started feeling tired and sick all the time. The doctors couldn't do anything for her and told us to make the most of the time we had left together. She got weaker and weaker and eventually had to be hospitalized. I was sitting at her side, holding her hand, when she passed." He paused to dab his eyes with his handkerchief.

"I'm terribly sorry." Zoya placed a gentle hand on his arm.

"After I lost Alice, I thought, well, that's it. I'll never find a love like that again."

"I doubt I'll ever marry again either," Zoya agreed. "Although it is nice to share lunch with a charming gentleman like yourself on such a special day."

"Is today a special day?"

"I'm forty-three years old today. To be honest, I'd almost completely forgotten about it."

"Why, happy birthday!" He grinned. "I wish I'd known beforehand. I would have brought you something."

"That's quite all right." She chuckled. "For Maria's birthday a couple of weeks ago, Jules made her a birthday blini. He had flour and saccharin but no eggs or baking powder, and when the cake was done, it looked more like a blini than a cake so that's what he called it, a birthday blini."

Paul laughed. "Well, here's your cake." He sat a Swedish turnip in the middle of the table. "And here's the ice cream." He sat a Jerusalem artichoke beside it.

Zoya giggled.


"I'm going to teach you how to be Russian Orthodox," Nicholas said to Anne, who was now known as Anna Franko. "When you pray, you cross yourself, like this." He demonstrated.

"But why do you have to do that?"

"I guess it's supposed to represent the cross Jesus died on."

"But Jews don't believe in Jesus."

Nicholas rolled his eyes, trying his best to be patient. "Like I told you, Anne..."

"I know. I can't be myself again until this madness is over with."

Nicholas laughed. "Of course you're still yourself! You just have to pretend to be my distant cousin. You know what? When we were in the train on the way here, it reminded me of when my Aunt Anastasia told me about coming to Paris with my Uncle Dimitri fourteen years ago. At first she couldn't remember who she was, and they quarreled all the time, but then she was reunited with her Grandmama and her memory came back, and she and Uncle Dimitri fell in love."

"Where's her Grandmama now?"

"She died when I was little."

"That's sad. My grandmother died a few months ago."

"I'm sorry."

"That's all right. I doubt she would have been able to make the journey, anyway." She moved a bit closer to him. "I'm sorry Moortje scratched you."

"It's almost healed now."

"I'm glad."


"I feel guilty about eating ice cream when nobody else can have any." As quickly as Margot was trying to eat it, her treat was still melting in the hot July sun at an alarming rate.

"No reason for you to feel guilty at all," Peter replied. "At least this dastardly uniform is good for something now and again." They were strolling together in a secluded section of the Tuileres Garden, as far from prying eyes as Peter could manage. He knew what his compatriots would assume she was if the two of them were seen together, and it angered him that anyone would think that about her.

"You know what?" She licked the drop that was just about to fall. "So far you're the only friend I have here. Anne's always had plenty of friends, but it's always been so hard for me to open up to anyone."

"Not everyone can be a social butterfly," said Peter. "I'm hardly one myself. You're a sweet girl, Margot, and I enjoy your company very much."

A young man appeared and sat cross-legged on a nearby bench. He took out a harmonica and began to play. The song he played was 'Muss I Denn.' Peter took Margot's elbow and steered her toward the opposite end of the garden.

"Why are you so quiet?" she asked after awhile.

"I was just thinking about the Orangerie Garten. I'd love for you to see it someday."

"We lived in Frankfurt when I was a little girl," she told him. "When the Nazis came to power, things got pretty bad for us. We moved to Amsterdam when I wasn't quite eight." Her ice cream finished, she cupped a flower in her hand. "Peter...have you ever been with a woman?"

He was silent, thinking of the last time he'd heard Edith Piaf perform. A long time ago, there had been Beate, for whom he'd felt youthful curiosity mixed with lust but nothing deeper. Since his arrival in France, he'd sampled the Parisian nightlife a handful of times, finding temporary physical pleasure but no lasting respite from his loneliness.

"I'm sorry," Margot was saying. "I had no right to ask such a personal question."

"That's quite all right, but what does it matter?"

"It doesn't matter at all, of course. Some day you'll marry a lovely German woman, one who's tall and blonde and blue-eyed like you are, and that's as it should be." She looked up at him, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes. "We would have been caught and sent to a camp if you hadn't rescued us, and if you'd been found out, you would have been executed. You risked your own life to save ours, and that's something I'll never, ever forget."

His hands cupped her face as his thumbs wiped her tears away and he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead. "I'd best get you back home now." His voice was gruff.

"I said something wrong, didn't I?"

"Oh no, not at all! It's simply that it's getting late and I don't want your parents to worry about you." The sun was still high in the sky as they began to walk toward Dimitri and Anastasia's home, where the Franks were temporarily staying. He took her hand and squeezed it as they said good-bye to one another.

"Thanks for the ice cream," she said.

"Sure. Anytime."

"We'll see one another again soon, I hope."

"Of course we will." He watched until she was safely inside before turning to leave. How he longed to take her into his arms and tell her how he really felt about her! If only she were a little older...

A couple of years seemed like an eternity to him.