The Journal des Occupés, when it came, spoke of villages we knew. At night it was not unusual for the distant boom of the guns to cause faint ripples in the glasses on our tables. It was some days before I realized that the missing sound was that of birdsong. We had received word that all girls from the age of sixteen and all boys from fifteen would now be required to work for the Germans, pulling sugar beet or tending potatoes, or sent further afield to work in factories. With Aurélien only months from his fifteenth birthday, Hélène and I became increasingly tense. Rumours were rife as to what happened to the young, with stories of girls billeted with gangs of criminal men or, worse, instructed to ‘entertain’ German soldiers. Boys were starved or beaten, moved around constantly so that they remained disoriented and obedient. Despite our ages Hélène and I were exempt, we were informed, because we were considered ‘essential to German welfare’ at the hotel. That alone would be enough to stir resentment among the rest of our village when it became known.

There was something else. It was a subtle change, but I was conscious of it. Fewer people were coming to Le Coq Rouge in the daytime. From our usual twenty-odd faces, we were down to around eight. At first I thought the cold was keeping people indoors. Then I became worried, and called on old René to see if he was ill. But he met me at the door and said gruffly that he preferred to stay at home. He did not look at me as he spoke. The same happened when I went to call on Madame Foubert and the wife of the mayor. I was left feeling strangely unbalanced. I told myself that it was all in my imagination, but one lunchtime I happened to walk past Le Bar Blanc on my way to the pharmacy, and saw René and Madame Foubert sitting inside at a table, playing draughts. I was convinced my eyes had deceived me. When it became clear that they hadn’t, I put my head down and hurried past.

Only Liliane Béthune spared me a friendly smile. I caught her, shortly before dawn one morning, as she slid an envelope under my door. She jumped as I undid the bolts. ‘Oh, mon Dieu – thank heaven it’s you,’ she said, her hand at her mouth.

‘Is this what I think it is?’ I said, glancing down at the oversized envelope, addressed to nobody.

‘Who knows?’ she said, already turning back towards the square. ‘I see nothing there.’

But Liliane Béthune was in a minority of one. As the days crept on I noticed other things: if I walked into our bar from the kitchen, the conversation would quieten a little, as if whoever was talking were determined that I should not overhear. If I spoke up during a conversation, it was as if I had said nothing. Twice I offered a little jar of stock or soup to the mayor’s wife, only to be told that they had plenty, thank you. She had developed a peculiar way of talking to me, not unfriendly exactly but as though it were something of a relief when I gave up trying. I would never have admitted it, but it was almost a comfort when night fell and the restaurant was full of voices again, even if they did happen to be German.

It was Aurélien who enlightened me.

‘Sophie?’

‘Yes?’ I was making the pastry for a rabbit and vegetable pie. My hands and apron were covered with flour, and I was wondering whether I could safely bake the off-cuts into little biscuits for the children.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’ I dusted my hands on my apron. My little brother was looking at me with a peculiar expression, as if he were trying to work something out.

‘Do you … do you like the Germans?’

‘Do I like them?’

‘Yes.’

‘What a ridiculous question. Of course not. I wish they would all be gone and that we could return to our lives as before.’

‘But you like Herr Kommandant.’

I stopped, my hands on my rolling pin and spun round. ‘You know this is dangerous talk, the kind of talk that could get us all into terrible trouble.’

‘It is not my talk that is getting us into trouble.’

Outside, in the bar, I could hear the townspeople talking. I walked over and closed the kitchen door, so that it was just the two of us in the kitchen. When I spoke again I kept my voice low and measured. ‘Say what you wish to say, Aurélien.’

‘They say you are no better than Liliane Béthune.’

‘What?’

‘Monsieur Suel saw you dancing with Herr Kommandant on Christmas Eve. Close to him, your eyes shut, your bodies pressed together, as if you loved him.’

Shock made me feel almost faint. ‘What?’

‘They say that is the real reason you wanted to be away from le réveillon, to be alone with him. They say that is why we are getting extra supplies. You are the German’s favourite.’

‘Is this why you have been fighting at school?’ I thought back to his black eye, his sullen refusal to speak when I asked him how he had come to receive it.

‘Is it true?’

‘No, it is not true.’ I slammed my rolling pin down on the side. ‘He asked … he asked if we might dance, just once, as it was Christmas, and I thought it better if he were thinking about dancing and being here, rather than risk him wondering what was going on at Madame Poilâne’s. There was nothing more to it than that – your sister trying to protect you for that one evening. That dance won you a pork supper, Aurélien.’

‘But I have seen him. I have seen the way he admires you.’

‘He admires my portrait. There is a huge difference.’