September 3, 1939 – Paris, France

LeBeau expertly wove his way through the maze of tables as he made his way back to the kitchen. "Renée!" he yelled, trying to convey the depth of his annoyance in that one word.

His sister didn't answer. She had disappeared during the middle of the lunch rush, leaving ten tables waiting for service and another half-dozen parties waiting to be seated. It didn't matter that the café was one of the area's smallest, it was also one of the busiest.

"Louis, table four's order is ready," Pierre declared, pushing the three plates toward LeBeau. "And mind you don't drop any of these ones," he directed firmly. "We don't have time to be remaking every order."

"It wasn't my fault," LeBeau protested. "Madame LePoint pushed her chair back just as I was walking past. With the terrace tables crammed in there, there isn't hardly room to breathe without knocking something over."

"You were just lucky that Monsieur and Madame Huot had already left for the evening," Pierre noted, point firmly to the door. "Now, are you going to serve table four or let their bouillabaisse get cold?"

"I'd like to see you out waiting tables," LeBeau shot back, hurriedly arranging the plates on a large tray.

"I'd like to see you make me," Piere retorted. "Now out!"

LeBeau sighed and carefully backed out the swinging door that connected the dining room with the kitchen. He edged his way through the tightly placed tables, holding the tray up above the heads of the seated patrons. It wouldn't be good for business if he knocked someone unconscious.

But the café never seemed to be suffering for lack of business. A homey atmosphere combined with a great location and gourmet cooking to create a place that people kept coming back to. It had grown from a tiny café into something that was an area landmark. It had slowly absorbed the space of two of its neighbours and really had outgrown the café designation, but the LeBeaus had never thought of it as a restaurant.

"Louis, what are you doing out of the kitchen?" Renée asked over the noise of the bustling café. She had reappeared from wherever she had gone and was standing with her hands on her hips, blocking LeBeau's path.

"Someone had to wait tables," LeBeau said simply, taking a detour around another table to get around her. He started handing out the plates, not bothering to give his sister a second glance. He knew that would annoy her more than anything else he could say or do.

"But not you, petit cochon," she retorted, taking one of the plates off of his tray and putting it on the table. "Your place is in the kitchen, along with your brothers."

LeBeau didn't answer her; he just made his silent way back to the kitchen, Renée trailing behind him. "If you were waiting tables, we would have to close the café in a month. I doubt that you would make it through the first two weeks," she declared, furiously starting to gather clean silverware for several newly-emptied tables.

"Thank you," LeBeau replied cheekily. "You only gave Pierre a week out of the kitchen. And André got less than that!"

Renée stalked out of the kitchen without another word, fastidiously ignoring both of her brothers.

"Table six hasn't ordered yet," Pierre called out as the door swung closed behind her. Renée didn't give the slightest indication that she heard Pierre. They had no clue whether she was going to take the order or not. "Louis," Pierre directed.

"But Renée has magically reappeared," LeBeau stated, emphasizing the obvious. He reached for his white hat. When he had been ordered from the kitchen to fill in for the missing Renée, he had abandoned it to the counter. Now that he was back in the kitchen, he could once again wear the white hat of his trade.

"That's nice, petit cochon," Pierre commented offhandedly. "Now go and see if table six is ready to order yet."

LeBeau threw up his hinds in complete frustration. It was never easy being the youngest of five children, but that was made all the more difficult when four of them worked together in the family café. Still, Pierre was the oldest and that gave him slightly more authority, even if Renée had the sharper tongue.

With a sigh, he put his hands on the swinging door, pushing it open briskly. The usual soft swish of the hinges was suddenly accompanied by the crash of china and a strangled cry that LeBeau instantly recognized as his sister's. He stepped away from the door, knowing full well that his sister would be bursting through any second.

"You clumsy oaf!" she yelled, barging through the door right on schedule. "Look what you did!" Her formerly pristine apron was spotted with flecks of pesto sauce. Her white blouse was smeared with cheese sauce. Linguine noodles dangled from her ears and were caught in her hair.

Pierre looked up from his cooking and laughed. "I don't know, Renée," he chortled. "I think it's a good look for you. It'll be all the rage next season."

Beneath the layer of sauce, her face started turning red. It was obvious that she was preparing to give them both the tongue lashing of the year. The grins started to fade from the faces of both brothers as they realised that Renée might very well decide to vanish for the day, leaving them to run the café on their own.

Thankfully, an anomaly in the noise coming from the dining area saved them from her wrath. There was a blip in the murmur of contented diners; something had happened. Then the bustle from the next room took on a completely different air. It was obvious that there was something wrong, even if they couldn't tell what it was from the kitchen.

LeBeau took a hurried step back to the swinging door, Renée hard on his heels. She had completely forgotten about her appearance in her desire to find out what was happening. Pierre rounded the end of the counter to peer over the shoulders of his siblings.

They found their father standing in the middle of a growing crowd. Diners had abandoned their dinners to press toward the café's founder, chattering excitedly. A few tables sat in silence, looking shocked. One woman was openly weeping into her napkin.

"Papa, what's happening?" Renée called, hurrying toward him.

He saw her coming and detached himself from the crowd, pressing through them to reach his children. As he pushed toward them, someone stared singing Le Marseilles in a resounding baritone. It was picked up by those surrounding him, growing until the sound spilled out into the street.

"We've declared war on the filthy Boche!" he declared excitedly. "Vive la France!"