I think about what I did that was wrong.

Instead of going to school, I listened to a boy who told me not to go.

Jakob made it sound like it would be fun to play with his toys.

But it wasn't!

And it wasn't fun getting caught, either.

I know better now.

I'll never skip school again.

I want my mother and Madame Marie to trust me.

My heart feels cleaner now, and I feel better.

I take a deep breath.

Can I smell the flowers Madame Marie told me about?

She turns from her sewing machine and glances at me over the tops of her glasses.

Still she doesn't say anything.

"You won't tell Mama, will you?" I ask her.

"Will this happen again?" she asks.

"Never," I say.

"Then there's no need to worry your mama," she replies.

I have one more question.

But I wait a minute before asking it.

"What if Mama asks me about school today?"

"Then you must do what your heart tells you,"

says Madame Marie.

I sigh.

I know what my heart will tell me.

But I don't want to think about that yet.

"You can climb down from that stool now,"

my godmother says.

She bites through the thread she has been unspooling.

She angles it into a needle.

"Would you like to learn how to sew on a button?"

What a grown-up thing to do!

"Oh, yes," I say.

So Madame Marie shows me how to guide my needle in and out, in and out, through the holes in the button.

I do it over and over and over again.

Then she shows me how to make a loop and slip the needle through.

The knot pulls tight.

The button won't fall off.

"Well done," says Madame Marie.

Her praise is rare.

I know I have done a good job.

I sew on four more buttons before Mama comes through the door that evening, Madame Marie shows her what I have learned.

"My, these are strong!" Mama says, testing the buttons.

"I couldn't do a better job myself."

Mama hums a tune she likes as we climb up the stairs to our apartment.

She does that when she's happy.

She forgets to ask about my day at school.

I decide I'll never, ever skip school again!

A Second Secret.

One day, Madame Marie asks me to come into her kitchen.

Together, we fill a box with food to send to Papa.

Now that he is a prisoner in Germany, not France, we don't get many letters from him.

"I registered myself as his godmother too,"

Madame Marie tells me.

"That way I can send him packages, just like your mama does."

She fits cans of beans and meat together.

I drop in some candies I have saved, wrapped in red and gold.

Madame Marie covers the box with paper and winds string around it ...

once, twice, three times.

I put my finger on the string for her so she can tie it tight.

"Is Germany far away?" I ask her.

"Very far," she says.

"Will Papa come home one day?"

"But of course!" she says. "I'll tell you a secret.

When your papa left for the army, I made a yellow blanket for him, just like yours.

I stitched a holy medal on it, one of Saint George, the dragon slayer.

He's the patron saint of soldiers.

I told your papa that whatever happens, he must hold on to that blanket.

He promised me that he would bring it back home.

So don't worry.

Your father will keep his promise."

What a good secret!

Saint George is looking after Papa.

They have the same name.

My blanket has kept me safe so far.

Maybe Papa's blanket will work for him too.

My Orange.

Our teacher hangs a photograph of Marshal Petain on the wall.

"He's the good father of France," she tells us.

"He makes sure every French schoolchild eats lunch."

Lentil soup.

Boiled rutabagas.

Kidney beans with lard.

These are what our good father gives us most days.

But tomorrow, our teacher says, will be different.

Marshal Petain will show special fatherly love to some.

Children like me, whose fathers are brave prisoners, will get an orange!

All we have to do is show papers proving our fathers are prisoners.

I haven't seen an orange in a long time.

I can't wait to tell Mama.

Mama isn't as excited as I am.

I can tell she doesn't like Marshal Petain.

But the next day she takes me to get my orange anyway.

We have to climb up some stairs and wait in line at an old building.

The crates of oranges are emptying fast.