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up the duffel bag and Régine followed him to the door of the tram. Once her feet touched the sidewalk, the first thing she noticed was the freshness in the air. The sun was already shining and the air was warm. She took a deep breath to calm down. She was very nervous about meeting Madame André. The streets were strangely empty, however. Régine noticed there were no cobblestones. In Boitsfort, the streets were paved.
    Her father pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket and studied it. “This way,” he said.
    They passed several houses before stopping again so that her father could take another look at his piece of paper. Now they stood in front of a two-story house painted all in white. The front yard was enclosed by a low, brown fence and had a garden with red and yellow flowers.
    Her father checked the number and put away the piece of paper. “This is it,” he said, straightening his hat.
    He pushed open the gate. Régine felt even more nervous as she followed him up the walk to the front door.
    Before her father could knock, the door opened. Standing behind it was a heavyset woman, her white hair tied in a bun. She was so big, she almost filled the door frame. She didn’t say a word, but just looked them over with a severe expression. The real Madame André looked nothing like the frail little woman Régine had imagined on the tram. She did not even look friendly.
    “I am Miller,” her father said.
    “Come in quick!” Madame André said and stepped back to let them in. Régine saw her look nervously up and down the road before locking the door.
    She was no more talkative inside the house than she had been in greeting them at the door. She did not ask any questions or invite her father to take off his coat. The three of them stood inside in silence. The woman was waiting for something. Régine’s father reached into his coat pocket, pulled out an envelope and handed it to Madame André. Without comment, she took it, looked inside and nodded. Then she turned to Régine. “I’ll show you your room.”
    Régine looked up at her father but did not know what to say. She did not want him to leave.
    “I’ll be back next week,” he told her. “Promise.”
    They embraced, and Régine kissed him on the cheeks. Fighting back tears, she followed Madame André up the stairs.

Chapter Twelve
    F OR THE FIRST TIME in her life Régine had her own bedroom. It had a dresser and a night table with a lamp. From the window she could see the tops of trees and roofs and into some of the windows of neighboring homes. The bed looked huge to Régine compared to the crib she had slept in all of her ten years. She unpacked and lay down, stretching out her legs. She tried to feel happy about the bed, the nice room and the one downstairs she had passed on her way up. It was lined with books. Léon would have liked that.
    Régine had heard her parents say many times that they wanted their children to be well read. Léon was the biggest reader in the house. Hardly had he finished a book before he was back from the library with another one. His favorite was the French translation of
Ivanhoe
by Sir Walter Scott. “The best author,” he told Régine.
    One night while Léon was out with his friends, she had picked up the copy of
Ivanhoe
from the coffee table near the sofa and began to read. The words were harder than those in her school books, but she struggled with it until she reached the place where her brother had marked the page. Then she put the book back in the place where she had found it so that Léon would never know that she had been reading his book. Léon would not want her to touch anything of his.
    She remembered how often she listened for the front door to unlock as she lay in her crib, and watched the crack of lightshining beneath the door and imagined her brother preparing his bed on the sofa. She would wait for the light to go out again, listen to the faint shuffling of pages being turned in the other room. Her eyes