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Maman had to shop after four o’clock in the afternoon, when there was nothing left in the shops because of the rationings. They had to ride in the last carriage of the
métro
. And they had to be home before curfew and not leave their house till morning. What were they still allowed to do? Nothing. Nothing, she thought.
    Unfair. So unfair. Why? Why them? Why all this? It suddenly seemed that nobody could possibly explain it to her.
     
     

     
     
    JOSHUA WAS ALREADY IN the meeting room, drinking the weak coffee he was fond of. I hurried in and sat between Bamber, the photo director, and Alessandra, the features editor.
    The room looked out onto the busy rue Marbeuf, just a stone’s throw away from the Champs-Élysées. It wasn’t my favorite area of Paris—too crowded, too gaudy—but I was used to coming here every day and making my way down the avenue, along the large, dusty sidewalks packed with tourists at every hour of the day, no matter what the season was.
    I had been writing for the weekly American magazine
Seine Scenes
for the past six years. We published a paper edition as well as an online version. I usually chronicled any event capable of interesting an American Paris-based audience. This included “local color,” which ranged from social and cultural life—shows, movies, restaurants, books—to the upcoming French presidential elections.
    It was actually hard work. The deadlines were tight. Joshua was a tyrant. I liked him, but he was a tyrant. He was the kind of boss that had little respect for private lives, marriages, and children. If somebody got pregnant, she became a nonentity. If somebody had a sick child, she was glared at. But he had a shrewd eye, excellent editorial skills, and an uncanny gift for perfect timing. We all bowed down to him. We complained about him every time his back was turned, but we wallowed no end. Fiftyish, a born and bred New Yorker who’d spent the past ten years in Paris, Joshua looked deceptively placid. He had a longish face and drooping eyes. But the minute he opened his mouth, he ruled. One listened to Joshua. And one never interrupted him.
    Bamber was from London, nearly thirty. He soared over six feet, wore purple-tinted glasses, sported various body-piercings, and dyed his hair marmalade. He had a marvelous British sense of humor that I found irresistible, but that Joshua rarely understood. I had a soft spot for Bamber. He was a discreet, efficient colleague. He was also wonderful support when Joshua was going through a bad day and unleashing his temper on each of us. Bamber was a precious ally.
    Alessandra was part Italian, smooth-skinned, and terrifyingly ambitious. A pretty girl with a head of glossy black curls and the kind of plump, moist mouth men grow stupid about. I could never quite make up my mind whether I liked her or not. She was half my age and already getting paid as much as I was, even if my name was above hers on the masthead.
    Joshua went through the charts for upcoming issues. There was a hefty article coming up for the presidential elections, a big topic since Jean-Marie Le Pen’s controversial victory in the first round. I wasn’t too eager to write about it and was secretly glad when it was allotted to Alessandra.
    “Julia,” said Joshua, looking up at me over his glasses, “this is up your alley. Sixtieth commemoration of the Vel’ d’Hiv’.”
    I cleared my throat. What had he said? It sounded like “the veldeef.”
    My mind went blank.
    Alessandra looked at me patronizingly.
    “July 16, 1942? Ring a bell?” she said. Sometimes I hated her whining Miss Know-All-ish voice. Like today.
    Joshua continued.
    “The great roundup at the Vélodrome d’Hiver. That’s what Vel’ d’Hiv’ is short for. A famous indoor stadium where biking races were held. Thousands of Jewish families, locked up there for days, in appalling conditions. Then sent to Auschwitz. And gassed.”
    It did ring a bell. Only faintly.
    “Yes,” I said firmly,