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The jeweler was a man named Max Besner, and his passion was creating pieces he hoped would outlive him by hundreds of years.

If one poured his heart and craftmanship into his work, if one used only the finest gemstones and metals, one’s creations would be passed from generation to generation for a long time to come.

Besner loved a challenge, and what Salomon Rosman was asking of him made him glow with pride.

“You are the only one in France who can do it, my friend,” Rosman said as he handed over a small bag of diamonds. “I want Hélène to know how much I love her, and how much I love our children, too.”

“Twins, my friend,” Besner replied, beaming. “A blessing.”

Rosman’s wife had given birth the day before to two healthy babies, a son they named Daniel, and a daughter they named Ruth. “A blessing indeed,” Rosman agreed, his voice thick with emotion. “I want them to inherit the jewels one day. But since there are two of them…”

“I must make two pieces,” Besner concluded.

“But my wife must be able to wear them as one,” Rosman said. “Beautiful on their own, but stronger together.”

“Just like your children, who will always be able to rely on each other,” Besner said with a smile.

He pulled a velvet-lined tray from beneath the counter and raised a brow at Rosman, who nodded his permission.

Besner poured Rosman’s jewels out, resisting the urge to gasp at the sheer number of them, the dazzling beauty, a constellation of tiny, perfect stars.

“There are hundreds,” he managed to say.

He hoped his eyes were not bulging; what if Rosman saw how impressed he was and decided that he was not the man for the job?

“What good are jewels if they sit in a drawer collecting dust?” Rosman said. “No, they must be brought to life. I’ve been saving these over the past few years.”

With his forceps, Besner picked carefully through the small fortune before him, turning over stones here and there, counting, assessing.

As he watched them catch the light, his mind was spinning, imagining the ways he could put them together to make something extraordinary, something the world had never seen before.

Already, he was picturing a celestial design, moon and skies and heavens.

“I think I will make—” he began, but before the words were out of his mouth, something strange happened.

Through the open window high above his workbench, a butterfly flitted into the room, the first one Besner had seen all spring, and the only one he had ever seen within these walls.

His shop was on the rue Choron, quite near the Grande Synagogue de la Victoire, but not particularly close to any of Paris’s sprawling parks.

The world outside his doors was cement and brick, not a welcoming place for such creatures.

This one didn’t seem lost, though. In fact, it seemed to know exactly where it was going. It fluttered casually down and landed gently on the rim of the velvet tray of gems, as if it, too, was waiting to hear what the jeweler had in mind.

But Besner was no longer thinking of night skies. He was staring at the butterfly, a striking creature with snow-white wings with edges that looked like they’d been dipped in ink.

“A Pieris brassicae ,” Rosman noted with a smile. “My wife’s favorite. She says they mean good luck and balance in the world.”

Besner stared at the butterfly on the table.

As if showing off, the creature slowly lifted and lowered its magnificent wings.

They caught the light in a way that seemed as magical and improbable as the sparkling of the diamonds spread before the two men, and at once, Besner had his answer.

He looked up at Rosman. “Then she shall have bracelets modeled after one.”

“Modeled after a butterfly?” Rosman sounded dubious.

The jeweler bent to get a better glimpse of the creature’s wings. “Twin bracelets,” he said slowly, the diamonds already arranging themselves in his mind, pieces of a puzzle only he could see. “Apart, they will look like lilies of peace. Together, a beautiful butterfly.”

Rosman looked first at the gems, then at the butterfly before them.

The creature itself seemed to be considering the proposal.

And then, as if it knew its job was done, it lifted off.

It hung suspended in the air between the two men for a few seconds before it rose and fluttered back toward the window, leaving the way it had come in.

Rosman turned his attention back to Besner. “It’s perfect,” he said. “Hélène and I will give our children wings, and they will soar.”

The jeweler felt a tingle of excitement, the kind that came when he knew he was on the cusp of something great. “As you wish, my friend,” Besner said. “I will call upon you later this week with some sketches.”

Three months later, the bracelets were complete, and Rosman was able to present them as a surprise to Hélène.

He couldn’t have imagined, when he was a younger man, how full his heart would feel when he looked upon his children and their beautiful, raven-haired mother; he sometimes felt as if he might burst with love, though he found it hard to say such things aloud.

The bracelets, however, told the story that his words could not.

They symbolized his devotion to Hélène, and his hope for the future of Ruth and Daniel.

It was 1927. The world was his for the taking. Paris was alive with possibility and hope, with music and culture, with art and fashion.

Just thirteen years later, the light would go out in that very same city, plunging it into despair. Still, Salomon and Hélène had their two beautiful children, who were growing up bright and resilient, kind and strong. Together, they would survive. Together, they would weather the storm.

And then, one night in July 1942, there was a banging on the Rosmans’ door and the world changed forever. Three Germans loomed at the threshold, there to take the family away.

“These arrests are usually the work of the French police,” said an officer named Mockel as he stepped into the opulent parlor of their apartment.

He looked around, sniffing like a dog picking up a scent.

“But I heard that you have beautiful things. I knew I needed to see for myself.” His gaze lingered on Hélène. “I see the rumors are correct.”

“We are French citizens,” Rosman said stiffly. “We have committed no crime.”

The German sniffed again. “Ah, but you’re Jews,” he said simply, as if that explained everything. “Go now, children, get your things ready. You won’t be returning.”

“Papa?” Ruth said softly, glancing at her father.

He could hardly meet his daughter’s eye, for he understood now exactly what was happening.

“We are going on a trip, children,” he said, trying to keep his tone light.

He looked into his wife’s eyes and could see there that she, too, understood the truth, and knew, as did he, that their children must be shielded from it as long as possible.

They were fifteen, nearly adults, but he would protect them as long as he could.

“Take your warmest coats. Hurry, my dears.”

Ruth and Daniel exchanged worried looks but did as they were told.

While they hastily packed, Mockel cheerfully relieved Hélène of all the jewels she was wearing, from her diamond engagement ring to the interlocking butterfly bracelets on her wrist, which she had worn every day since her husband had given them to her a decade and a half before.

“Designed by Max Besner, if I’m not mistaken? ” Mockel asked.

In the years since Rosman had ordered the bracelets, Besner had become a bit of a celebrity in the jewelry industry, but still, Rosman was startled to realize that his friend’s reputation had reached the Germans. “Yes, that’s correct,” he said stiffly.

“They’re extraordinary,” Mockel said, holding them up to the light. They twinkled and danced, as if showing off for the German. “The way they link together, there’s nothing like them.”

“Please, when will I get them back?” Hélène asked in a small voice, though certainly she had to have known the answer.

Mockel just laughed and directed his men to go through all the drawers in the house to uncover whatever other treasures the Rosmans might be hiding.

Salomon Rosman would not survive the year, nor would his wife Hélène.

Never again would the apartment in the eleventh arrondissement belong to their family; never would the children smell the sweet smoke of their father’s pipe or hear the timbre of his laughter.

Never would they taste the challah their mother labored over each week or hear the soothing sound of her voice as she sang softly to herself in the kitchen.

But just as the jeweler had promised, the bracelets would live on. Diamonds always do.