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“Trotters and potatoes,” a man said as he exited the shop. It wasn’t enough for him to smile, but he would have something to eat this week.

Madame Guillaume joined the queue and caught Fabienne’s attention. The marks on her face had gone, but her cheeks were gaunt, and she no longer looked pregnant. She touched her belly as she held Fabienne’s gaze.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Brun.”

“Bonjour, Madame. How are you?”

“A little better, thank you. Things have changed. You know, I have no business to tend to anymore.”

Fabienne glanced at her belly. “I am sorry, Madame.”

“I did not want to conceive a child in that way, nor from a man like him, but in the end, I did not want to lose it either. It becomes a bigger part of you than you can imagine, growing inside you.”

Fabienne noted the pain in her eyes, the fatigue that had reduced her in both stature and confidence. She hoped she could pass on some good news about Müller soon. It wasn’t much to offer, and it wouldn’t put food on her table, but it was justice and that might go some way to consoling Madame Guillaume in her grief.

Fabienne was called into the shop.

“That’s the last of it,” Monsieur said, taking the stamp from her ration card. He handed her the package.

She took the meat and the four small potatoes and left the shop.

“No more rations today,” Monsieur shouted.

The men and women in the queue moaned and started to disperse.

Fabienne caught up with Madame. “Please, take these.”

Madame shook her head. “I can’t. You have other mouths to feed.”

Fabienne shook her head. “Please, take them. I have potatoes at home, and trotters are not our favourite.” She smiled to lighten the situation. It wasn’t a matter of what food they liked or didn’t like; it was a matter of someone needing it more than they did. They were in a fortunate position, cooking for the kommandant, and although it galled Fabienne to take anything from a German, she wasn’t so proud as to cut off the hand that would give her the energy to fight against them.

Madame smiled, though the air of sadness she now wore like an old coat didn’t lift. “Are you sure?”

Fabienne thrust the package into her hand. “I made a promise, Madame. I intend to keep it.”

A spark of recognition appeared in Madame’s expression, and Fabienne settled knowing she would get through another day with hope. Now Fabienne had to get back to the house. The thought of seeing Johanna set off butterflies in her stomach, which was both pleasant and unhelpful.

***

Johanna’s thoughts about what else she could do to help Fabienne as she walked down the stairs were interrupted by a knock on the front door.

A tall slender man in his grey-and-black uniform, a small suitcase at his feet, clicked his heels. “Guten morgen, Frau Neumann. I am Obersturmführer Schmidt. I have been assigned to guard your house. Heil Hitler.” He clicked his heels again and saluted.

Johanna’s heart sank. He was no more than a boy and far too keen. She turned from the door, and he entered the house, shutting the door behind him.

“Please let me know how I can be of service,” he said. He followed her like a puppy into the kitchen.

“This is Frau Tussaud. She and her granddaughter, who will be here shortly, cook for us and take care of the house, so if you want to be well fed you will treat them both with respect.”

He bowed his head. “Of course, Frau Neumann. I am always a gentleman.”

She liked that he was young enough to still be blindly obedient, unlike Müller who was an old dog and knew all the tricks to usurp her authority. She poured a jug of water and handed it to him. “My daughter is studying on the second floor, third door on the right when you get to the top of the stairs. Could you take this to the classroom?”

He took the jug. “And which room shall I sleep in, Frau Neumann.”

“You can billet in the annex, on the other side of the archway. Hauptmann Müller has a bedroom there. You can take the second one. Take him some soup when you come back from the classroom, but be aware that he has the influenza so don’t get too close.”

He clicked his heels and scurried away. Johanna went upstairs and towards her husband’s bedroom. She hadn’t entered his room since arriving, and she approached it now with a sense of trepidation, a feeling that he would catch her snooping. It was ridiculous because he wouldn’t be home until late evening and even if he did arrive unexpectedly, she would see the car approaching from his window, or, if she was distracted, hear him thundering through the front door. She would have sufficient warning to be able to get to her own room down the corridor before he tracked her down.