"I'll be good ... I promise. Please!"

I feel like I'm being torn in two.

Mama's face twists away.

"No, Odette," she says. "That would be too dangerous.

You must go with our friends to a safe place, remember?

Cecile and Paulette and Suzanne will be waiting for you at the train station.

You girls will all go together."

Mama stands up.

"Don't be sad, Odette," she says.

"It's only for a little while ...

until we can be together again."

She blows me a kiss, and she slips through the glass-topped door.

I watch her in the hallway.

She belts her coat tightly around her.

Then she opens the huge wooden door and disappears into the street.

Courage.

I look up at my godmother, trembling.

My heart pounds down in my stomach.

I know I have to go with Paulette and Cecile and Suzanne.

We have known each other all our lives.

Our mothers are friends.

But we are not together, not yet!

How can I go to the railway station all alone?

Madame Marie plucks away the last few threads left on my dress from my star.

She smoothes the fabric with her fingertips.

Suddenly, I grab her and bury my face in her dress.

I cling to her and sob.

How can I leave my home, my mother, my godmother too?

I won't do this!

I'll never be able to do this!

"Courage, ma petite," Madame Marie says, and pats my back.

"Don't worry.

I'll fetch Henri from work.

He'll take you on the Metro to the railway station."

I take a deep breath.

My heart rises back into my chest.

Monsieur Henri, with his walrus mustache and his kind, droopy eyes, is as big and strong as the mountains he comes from.

I know he'll protect me.

"Come now," says my godmother as she wipes my face.

"I'll help you pack."

She tiptoes into the hallway and listens.

No one is coming downstairs.

Together we creep up to my apartment.

Madame Marie closes the door, then the bedroom shutters.

The school year has just ended.

My godmother takes my notebooks and pencils out of my schoolbag.

She puts in clean underwear, the blue sweater my mother knitted, a print dress she made for me.

I bring her my doll.

"Ah, no, my little rabbit.

Charlotte cannot go in this bag."

"I have to bring Charlotte!" I say.

Panic rises into my chest ...

I can't go without my doll!

"No," says Madame Marie, her mind made up.

"You can take only a small bag.

A big one might attract attention, and Charlotte cannot fit in here."

She puts a finger to her lips to tell me to be quiet.

"You and Charlotte say good-bye for now.

Then come downstairs.

I'll have your breakfast waiting."

My godmother slips out the door.

I take Charlotte and go to my mother's bed.

I collapse onto her rumpled sheets, soak in her smell.

Then I see the photograph of my father.

I can't take Charlotte, but Papa can go in my schoolbag.

I take out my blue sweater and wrap it around his photograph.

"There!" I whisper to Charlotte.

I shove the sweater inside my schoolbag and buckle it.

"Now I'm ready to go."

I sit Charlotte down on my pillow and smooth her hair.

"You must be brave, cherie.

It's only for a little while."

I kiss her cheek.

I open the door and listen.

Silence.

Sunbeams stretch down from the skylight, warming the hallway.

Even so, my spine prickles as I tiptoe down the creaking stairs.

My Escape.

Monsieur Henri takes my small hand in his large one.

He pushes open the heavy wooden door leading into the rue d'Angouleme.

Two tall soldiers loom like giants right outside our apartment building.

They're carrying guns.

Monsieur Henri's grip on my hand tightens.

Trucks still rumble along the street.

"Look at your feet," Monsieur Henri says softly, when the soldiers are far enough away.

"If anyone calls your name, don't answer."

I can't breathe.

I can't think beyond my feet.

One step at a time, I push the pavement away.

It sticks to my feet.

In slow motion, Monsieur Henri and I pass the convent, the pharmacy, and the chain factory.

People leaf through their newspapers as always at the Cafe de la Baleine.

Rolls of cheery oilcloth greet customers, as they do every day, at the hardware store.

The smell of fresh bread fills the morning air, as it does every morning, at the bakery.