Camille felt ill. Julie never used to bite her nails. When had that started? And why hadn’t Camille noticed?

“Do you see this hand?” her father asked gently.

Again, Julie tried to withdraw it, her face turning red. “Papi—”

“I had this same hand, probably when I was about your age.”

Julie stopped resisting and stared at him.

“I, too, was the victim of bullies when I was young. In fact, this happened all through my childhood, but particularly when I was a teenager.”

“You never told me that,” Camille said.

“It’s not a pleasant thing to revisit, but I’m telling you now because I want you and Julie to feel you can trust what I have to say.”

“What were you bullied about?” Julie asked.

“A bully does not need a reason. There are things that will never change, and one of these things is the cruelty that can take over a group of teenagers.”

Julie pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Papi. I know you didn’t deserve it.”

“And I know the same about you.” He gently brushed her cheek with the back of his hand. “You are so very beautiful, my sweet.”

Camille smiled past the lump in her throat. Their love had always been so strong and pure. He’d taken care of Julie while Camille worked, teaching her French and his favorite cooking techniques. He was the one who had taught her to kick a soccer ball and sing his old favorite songs.

“Tell us, Papa,” Camille said quietly.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and studying the ground. After a few moments, he looked up and said, “I was bullied all through my youth, even when I was too young to understand what was happening.”

“Why you, Papi?” asked Julie.

“Because of who I was,” he told her. “Because of who my father was.”

“The mayor of the town, isn’t that what you said?” Julie asked. “Did he die fighting? Was he a war hero?”

Henry regarded her with an expression Camille had never seen on her father’s face. “My father was no hero,” he said, his voice low, nearly breaking. “At the end of the war, he was shot as a collaborator.”

“Oh my God,” Camille said, reeling. “You never told me that.”

“It would not exactly be a source of pride, now, would it? Not a story I want to share, that I am the son of a Nazi collaborator. I grew up in a village where my father was regarded as a monster.”

Camille’s stomach clenched. “Papa—really?”

He nodded, his expression strained. “This is a secret I’ve held in all my life. There is this shame our family has been carrying around for decades. I never told you because I didn’t want you or Julie to be tainted by it.”

Camille tried to get her head around this revelation. “So your father was a collaborator. Meaning he threw in with the Nazis during the war.”

“Yes. According to all who knew him, he was quite a tyrannical one at that. When the Nazis moved in, he ingratiated himself with them. He persecuted Jews and betrayed resistance fighters. He allowed the town to be turned into a slave state for the Germans. Nearly every family in Bellerive suffered—and many died—because of Didier Palomar. Upon liberation by the Allies, the épuration sauvage took place—a period of savage revenge. Palomar was tied to a stake and shot while his pregnant wife looked on.”

“Shot? You mean executed?”

“No. He was not given a proper trial. It was vigilante justice, but I imagine the outcome would have been the same if he’d been tried.”

“And Lisette witnessed the shooting,” Camille said.

“Was she a collaborator, too?” Julie asked. “Was your aunt Rotrude?”

“That, I do not know. I like to think they opposed the Nazis the way any self-respecting French citizen would. As for me, I grew up bearing the shame and guilt of my father’s deeds. And that is why the bullying happened. Kids at school hated me because they claimed my father was responsible for the hardship, torment, and death suffered by their families during the war.”

Camille went to his side and took his hand. “I can’t believe you never told me any of this.”

“No one enjoys speaking of things they’re ashamed of,” he said quietly.

“It’s not your shame,” Camille objected. “It was his—Didier.”

“Mom’s right,” Julie said. “You weren’t even born when all that happened. You had nothing to do with the Nazi occupation, right?”

“I know it probably doesn’t make sense to you, but you must understand what it was like in Bellerive. A tiny village where everyone knows everyone else. The war was fresh in memory, and there were reminders all over—buildings reduced to rubble, bullet holes in walls, craters from bombs. My name was Palomar, and I was the heir to my father’s property. I was a reminder of the bitterness and tragedy caused by Didier Palomar. Imagine me in school, sitting next to a boy whose father had been hauled away and shot in the street on orders from my own father. I can’t say I would have behaved differently.”

“Seriously?” Julie’s eyes were wide with fear. “Your father ordered people to be shot?”

“So I was told. Some of the stories were likely apocryphal, but there is no denying that when the Germans occupied this town, Didier Palomar was their puppet, informing on his neighbors in order to show his support for the Nazis. And even though he paid the ultimate price, villagers still demanded justice. I was his flesh and blood, a living reminder of the things he had done.”

“This happened?” asked Camille, aghast. “Papa, that’s unbelievable.”

He steepled his fingers together and stared at the floor. “Palomar was regarded as a monster. It seemed half the families in town suffered from his many betrayals.”

“But that doesn’t make it right for kids to beat up on you,” Julie said.

He put his hand on hers. “We have already established this well-known fact—a bully acts on the flimsiest of reasons. Now, my dear one. Go and take a look at the ducklings. They hatched this morning. Your maman and I will get dinner started. Go, and we’ll talk of happier things over dinner.”

For some reason, Camille’s thoughts darted to Finn. She wanted to tell him about Didier Palomar and see if they could discover more details about the mayor of Bellerive. Finn had promised to visit the town to see if he could help her fill in the details of Lisette’s pictures. Now she wanted him to learn more about Didier—her grandfather, she thought with a lurching revulsion.

“I hate that you suffered,” she said, following her father inside. No wonder he had left Bellerive, anglicized his name, and started a new life. “I hate that it still hurts you, all these years later.”

“I try never to think of it, but there is no escape from certain memories. The parcel from Madame Olivier brought up so many reminders.”

“I wish you’d talked to me about this.”

“It was very grim.”

“But if you’d said something, maybe it would have eased your pain. Hiding things away can be toxic, Papa. Have you ever thought of talking to someone about it? I mean, like the counselor I saw after Jace—”

He caught his breath. “Listen, all the talk therapy you endured after losing Jace did not work either. You still haven’t ventured out of our safe little world here.”

Her cheeks felt hot, burning with the truth of what he said. “Because it’s our world. Because it’s safe.”

“You can no longer say it’s a safe place, not at this moment,” he pointed out, his gaze flicking in the direction of the garden.

She felt a stab of worry. “You’re right. What am I going to do about Julie? I feel so awful for her. I just want to go and rip somebody’s head off.”

“Which, of course, will not work, unless you want matters to escalate. When I was Julie’s age, the village priest passed away, and a younger one took over. He observed what was happening, and tried to punish the kids who were tormenting me. You can imagine what that did, eh?”