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cooing of the doves, and the glow of the late afternoon. The white tablecloth and polished silver candlesticks gleamed. Maman’s face was calm and serene, ready to welcome in the Sabbath. But when she turned to look at Gustave, her expression changed.
    “What happened?” she exclaimed. “How did you get so wet? Oh, your shoes too! And couldn’t you buy a second baguette?”
    “Sounds like an odd boy,” said Papa when Gustave had finished reluctantly telling them about the boy from the bakery. “I guess he doesn’t like strangers. Or maybe he resents city people.”
    “What did he call you, exactly?” asked Maman, twisting her fingers together. “He didn’t say ‘Jew,’ did he?”
    “No. Just ‘Paris kid.’ ” Gustave’s stomach felt hollow. “Don’t they like Jews here either?”
    “I don’t imagine that many people in Saint-Georges know any Jews,” said Papa. “It’s a small Catholic village. The families here have lived in this area for generations. Don’t worry about it, Lili,” he said to Maman. “If we only have one loaf of bread, that’s what we’ll use. Go change quickly, Gustave, and then let’s welcome in Shabbat.”
    When Gustave came down in dry clothes, Maman pulled her lace shawl over her head and struck a match to light the first candle. Then she hesitated, glancing through the open window at the road just outside.
    “Let’s close the windows and shutters first,” she said quietly. “So nobody can overhear us singing in Hebrew. It’s better if nobody here knows for sure that we’re Jewish.”
    She blew out the match, and she and Gustave and Papa closed the shutters in the kitchen and living room and latched the windows. The rooms were suddenly dark and somber again.
    They gathered around the table, and Maman again lifted the shawl over her head, lit the candles, and closed her eyes. In her clear, high voice, she sang the Hebrew blessing over the candles. She sang more quietly than she usually did, and Gustave heard a slight quaver. Papa stood beside Maman, solid and calm. His voice was warm and rich when he and Gustave joined in to chant the Sabbath prayers. Gustave watched their faces in the glow of the candlelight, singing the blessing over the wine, singing the blessing over the bread.
    “Shabbat shalom,” said Papa and Maman and Gustave to each other when they had finished. “A Sabbath of peace.”
    But even though it was Shabbat, and despite what Papa had said earlier, Maman had two small worry lines between her eyes. A Sabbath of peace, thought Gustave, remembering Maman’s earlier words about Saint-Georges. A peaceful place. But would Saint-Georges really turn out to be a safe place, a place of peace? Looking at the shutters hiding them from the street, and remembering the snarling dog and the blank face of the boy with the pale eyes, Gustave didn’t feel sure of that. Not sure at all.

6

    Saint-Georges, April 1940
    G ustave had been in Saint-Georges for three long weeks. Late one Tuesday afternoon in April, with his rucksack on his back, he pulled himself up into his fort in the loft of the garage and threw down the three long, sturdy sticks he was holding. Madame Foncine wouldn’t let Gustave explore the attic, but she hadn’t said anything about staying out of the garage—not that Gustave had asked her, exactly. He knew better than to do that, after what she had said about boys messing around in her attic. So Gustave slipped in and out of the garage when she wasn’t watching. The old building had once been a barn, and it had a hayloft at one end that made a perfect fort.
    Gustave looked around in satisfaction. He had spread a khaki blanket over the splintery floor and arranged three bales of hay in a triangle for seats. If Jean-Paul and Marcel came to join Gustave in Saint-Georges, the fort would be all ready for the three of them. There were two lookout windows facing in different directions.
    “Perfect for spying on the enemy,” Gustave said to