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“My grandfather is taking a trip to Dijon,” she said.

“It’s a beautiful place, with a fine mustard that goes perfectly with a good rib of beef. Maybe after the war, I’ll take a trip there. When is he travelling?”

Fabienne smiled. The thought of a good steak made her mouth water. She looked forward to the time they could sit out of an evening enjoying dinner without curfew or guards watching their every move. “The second of June.”

“It should be good weather by then.”

She turned her attention back to the message. “He tells me he has something to attend to at nine-thirty p.m. Though he didn’t specify the details. He doesn’t talk much these days. The war has addled his mind.”

“I see. How delightful a warm summer’s evening will feel. God will make sure he comes to no harm. Now, how about you, my child, are you well?”

Fabienne thought about Johanna and blushed. She lowered her head and toyed with her hands in her lap. “I am well. I wanted to ask about the swallows.”

Father Paul cleared his throat. “Yes, the wind has changed direction, making the route too difficult to navigate. They are going to need to nest here until the weather changes.”

“When is that forecast?”

Father Paul inhaled deeply. “God works in mysterious ways, my child. It would be prudent to assume they might spend the summer here.”

The sixteen children they were referring to wouldn’t be able to stay in the cellar for two or three months. They would have to find an alternative arrangement. If the routes south to Switzerland were blocked, it would also be difficult to move Esther, though she was in no fit state to go anywhere yet. “I need antibiotics, Father.”

“I will see what I can do. Father Michel may be able to help.”

Fabienne rubbed her eyes. She slumped forward and held her head in her hands. “I am tired.”

“God will give you the strength you need. There are rumours that great strides are being made in the north, Fabienne. Have faith. Your people need you.”

“And how do I help my grandfather get to Dijon?”

“You take care of the swallows. I will look after your grandfather.”

“But I have to help.”

“You have done enough, Fabienne. God will take care of the rest.”

Fabienne sat up, leaned backwards, and gazed at the arched wooden ceiling of the confessional. God had his hands full, that was certain. She wished she’d had more information to give Father Paul about Operation Dijon. Even if he had known about it, he wasn’t going to tell her. She had been given her instructions, and she would follow them to the letter. The problem of hosting the children for weeks needed her attention, as did the collection of Esther’s new papers.

She exited the church and headed to the bistro to meet up with Louis Bertrand.

A couple of Wehrmacht soldiers were playing cards at a table. Other than that, the bar was empty. Edith Piaf was singing on the radio. The barman poured a shot of brandy and handed it to Fabienne along with an envelope. She pocketed the envelope and sat down at a table, allowed herself to relax a little as she sipped the warming liquid. Bertrand entered the bar, ordered a beer and came to her table.

He indicated to the seat next to her, and she acknowledged his silent request.

They sat quietly, drinking, Fabienne pondering Father Paul’s remark about the progress being made in the north. After all the years at war, it seemed almost inconceivable that one day it would end. Like a light in the distance, barely a flicker, a tease. You cannot reach it and it doesn’t appear any brighter with time. You just have to hope and to keep moving in a direction that you believe will lead you there.

“Do you think we are winning?” she asked.

Bertrand smiled with his eyes. There was a mellowness in him she hadn’t seen before. “I heard the allies are bombing German military bases along the French coast. Rumours are that there is going to be an offensive that will destroy the German army. It won’t be long now.”

The news might be part fact, part optimism, but it was reassuring to see that he believed they were winning. She glanced towards the soldier’s playing cards. They were laughing and talking amongst themselves, and it didn’t look like they were eavesdropping.

“We have another mission,” she said in a quiet voice.

The hardness returned to his eyes. “What is it?”

“We need to host sixteen children for a while.”

He blew out through his teeth and took a long slug of beer. His appearance softened again. He took out a cigarette, offered her one, and lit both. “When? For how long?”