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“Not your property either.” The man waves a sheet of paper at Samuel.

It’s printed on parchment and is the official version of the seizure decree his friend Lucien gave him.

When Samuel makes no move toward it, the men raise their guns and point them at him.

Then the man pushes the decree into Samuel’s chest. “Take it!”

It drops to the floor, but Samuel doesn’t move.

“Do what he says,” Colette begs.

The men form a circle around them, press in closer. One of them, a boy, actually, his eyes hard and pale as a white marble, rams his gun into Samuel’s temple. “Pick it up, Jew!” he orders.

Samuel bends gracefully, picks up the paper, and then stands tall again. He doesn’t look at it.

“Read it!” the officer roars. “Out loud, so we can all hear how far you’ve fallen!”

Samuel calmly does. When he finishes, he and Colette are tied onto chairs facing in opposite directions, unable to see each other and too far apart to communicate.

Then the Germans proceed to ransack the house.

They pull paintings off the walls, sculptures from their niches, then take each one to their leader, Lieutenant Colonel Heinrich Achenbach, so he can check it against his list.

They bring Colette’s jewelry box down from the bedroom and dump it out at her feet, grinning wildly as they scoop up the pieces and stuff them into their pockets.

Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, pins, gemstones, silver and gold, family heirlooms, and presents from Samuel.

But all Colette can think of is Genevieve, hiding, terrified and alone.

Don’t find her. Don’t find her. Pease don’t find her.

Achenbach yells to his charges not to forget the wrapped painting in the foyer.

Colette has been able to maintain her composure, to follow Samuel’s example and remain stoic and silent, but the thought of her beloved Party , the one thing her mother begged her to never part with, being carried away by their grimy hands is too much, and she moans.

An older German, the buttons of his uniform stretching to contain his girth, places a gun on her collarbone and moves it with a gentle, tickling motion.

“One of your special paintings? Please do not fear, my dear, as I promise we will take very good care of it.” Then he jerks the gun hard up against the bottom of her chin.

She whimpers, closes her eyes. But instead of shooting her, he bursts out laughing and pulls the gun away. “Got ya!” he cries, and laughs even harder.

Colette slumps into the chair, furious and humiliated.

If they’re going to kill her, just do it.

But their evil is too deep for that. For in their depraved minds, it’s more fun to terrify and belittle their victims than to kill them.

Or to terrify and belittle them before they kill them. She bows her head. Her poor baby girl.

After what seems like hours, Achenbach comes back as the last of their art collection is being carried out the door. He stands with his legs wide and scrutinizes the two of them. “Today is my wife’s birthday, and we’re having a little celebration with our children this evening.”

Colette gawks at him. What now? He pulls a knife from his boot, and it crosses her mind that being shot would be much better than being stabbed to death.

What a bizarre thought. Probably her last. Again, she closes her eyes.

Then, to her immense surprise, he slices through the ropes holding them to their chairs.

She and Samuel run into each other’s arms.

“My wife is a very charitable woman,” Achenbach muses. “So in her honor, I’ve decided not to kill you.” He eyes their grand, if denuded, home. “And now that I think about it, this house will make a perfect birthday present for her,” he adds, and strides out the broken front door.

As soon as they’re certain he’s gone, they rush into the kitchen, searching for Genevieve. They call her name. Call again. Call for Cook.

Silence. The servants have fled.

Frantic, they rush up and down both the front and back stairs, through every room, every floor, their voices raw with fear. Then Samuel grabs her arm. “The cellar.”

The cellar is dark and dank, with a dirt floor and a low ceiling.

It’s cluttered with many generations of Morisot and Bernheim castoffs, barrel after barrel of them.

As Colette gropes her way down the wobbly steps, she yells her daughter’s name.

“Genevieve!” she yells again when she reaches the bottom.

“Maman!” a small voice cries, and Colette falls to her knees. Samuel runs past her, following the sound, and scoops the child up in his arms. Tears stream down both their faces as he carries Genevieve to her mother.

THE TRAVEL DOCUMENTS arrive later that evening, and at dawn the three of them climb into the car Samuel ordered for two and hold on to each other in the back seat.

Three suitcases are in the trunk, but no Party .

They arrive in London the following afternoon, but stay for only a few months, bombing raids driving them from the city.

The United States is still accepting a few Jewish immigrants and, with the last of their money, they secure passage on a ship to New York City.

After a rough crossing, which renders them all horribly seasick, Colette and her little family travel by train to Norwich, Connecticut, where they are met by Samuel’s cousin, Clara.

Clara is horrified by how emaciated they are, and she proclaims that she will spend the next month fattening them up.

She settles them into a room in her boardinghouse and proceeds to cook and feed them day and night.

Her husband, Harry, offers Samuel a job in his jewelry store.

Their wealth, property, and art collection may be gone, but Colette is so grateful they are alive and together that this matters little.

It’s not a bad life, but she recognizes that neither she nor Samuel will ever completely recover from the trauma, although she hopes Genevieve will.

Colette also knows that, for her, the loss of Party will be a gaping wound that will never heal.