Sisters at War: The BRAND NEW utterly heartbreaking World War 2 historical novel by Jina Bacarr

By Jina Bacarr

Paris, 1940: Two sisters separated by the Nazis… After a devastating attack, Justine and Ève Beaufort find themselves on opposite sides of the war, both in their beloved Paris. But can they ever find their way back to each other?

It was the day that changed everything. When the Nazis broke into our home, destroying everything, taking our home and our security. I thought it couldn’t get worse. But then they also took my sister.

After that day nothing was the same. I thought I’d never see her again. I thought she was lost to me forever. I joined the Resistance, vowing to fight against the evil German army with every last spark of fire in my body. Nothing and nobody can stop me.

Until I catch a glimpse of a woman who looks just like my sister. Alive. But this is not the sweet darling girl I once knew. This is a platinum blonde happily conversing with a terrifying Gestapo officer. No longer my sister. But a traitor.

And I know what I must now do…

Could you choose your country – and what is right – over the person you once loved more than anyone in the world?

Readers are loving Sisters At War:

“My heart was torn to shreds… This is one powerful, gut-wrenching, soul-shattering novel that would make any woman cry… My own heart felt pierced to the core… Like nothing else I have read… Magnificent.” Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“Hard-hitting and heart-breaking, this is truly an excellent novel.” NetGalley reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“Wow what a book! From the very first page I was totally hooked… A rollercoaster of a ride of heartbreak and bravery… An absolutely gripping, powerful story that I won’t forget anytime soon.” NetGalley reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

Praise for Jina Bacarr:

“Wow! I was blown away by the magnitude of this novel. It is exceptional on so many levels. It is hard to know where to begin in singing its praises… A gripping, heart wrenching story of chaos, sacrifice and courage… A must-read for historical fiction lovers” Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“This powerful heartbreaking story is one that will stay with me for a long time… Amazingly vivid…I was taken on a rollercoaster of emotions from heartbreak to joy and anger to excitement and a whole lot more. I hate what people had to face but I love their determination, bravery and courage… There aren’t enough stars in the world to rate this book.” Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“Wow, what an emotional read… Beautifully told, with an ending as perfect as one can be given the atrocities experienced, it brought a tear to my eye. Highly recommended!” Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“A song of bravery, sacrifice, and freedom that sings out loud and strong.” Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

“Unputdownable… A story of love, both given and desperately longed for, courage, bravery and above all, hope and determination that good will come out of darkness… When a story stays with you long after you turn the final page, you know you’ve hit gold.” Goodreads reviewer ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Sep 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9781837515059

Jina Bacarr

Jina Bacarr is a US-based historical romance author of over 10 previous books. She has been a screenwriter, journalist and news reporter, but now writes full-time and lives in LA. Jina’s novels have been sold in 9 territories.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

PARIS, 1940

I shall never forget that hot August day when the SS officer attacked me. The horror that took hold of my body, my soul. My psyche. My outlook on life. Everything changed. I changed. Afterward I could no longer look at the world in the same way. I was no longer filled with promise. I’d never bloom from the love of the sun. I was smashed into the dirt and quashed by the heel of a black jackboot. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. I was alone with my pain. Humiliated. Lost. I kept quiet as we women do. As we’re supposed to do, I guess. Yet I couldn’t go back to the way things were. The city I loved, the city of perfume and flowers, had lost its sweet smell, its vibrant Impressionist pigment gone and replaced by the dull beetle-green of the occupiers. The world I knew ceased to exist. I was an innocent girl no more.

I was shocked it could happen to me.

Late summer started out as it always does, sending Parisians out of the city to escape the heat. That summer, my beloved Paris wept like a spoilt child. Not believing everything we loved was turned upside down, everything we tasted turned bitter. Two million souls had fled Paris last June to escape the Nazis. Refugees clogging the road going south away from the city, carrying their life’s belongings piled high on top of motorcars, bicycles, pushcarts, or on their backs, strafed by German aircraft and dragging along despair with each labored step. What they called the Exodus.

I wasn’t one of them.

Instead I gathered in the cozy servants’ kitchen that morning with Maman and my sister, knitting, chatting as one does about how slow the days pass in summer, staring out the windows misting with a dove-gray dawn.

I sipped my tea, smiling. I felt safe here in the grand house of Monsieur and Madame de Giocomte, descendants of a wealthy Jewish banking family who had settled in France after arriving here from Venice over two hundred years ago with treasures that dazzle the eye. Art, antiques, tapestries. Glorious art that enriches our lives. Maman works for Madame as a seamstress and reminds us every day how lucky we are to grow up in a luxurious three-story house known as Maison des Ombres Bleues. House of Blue Shadows. We call it Maison Bleue, an abode that bristles with art masterpieces hung at every angle in every room. A house named for the deep blue shadows that appear every day in the library at twilight and take on evocative shapes, reminding me of spirits weary from keeping family secrets they can never tell. A place filled with exquisite portraits where luminous faces on the wall peer down at me with warnings in their eyes I’m too blind to see.

I often used to study the portrait of my sister and me when we were young girls of sixteen and fourteen sitting on a Carrara marble bench in the garden bleached white by centuries of young girls sitting their backsides there, making daisy chains and pining for romance. I love the happy glow on our faces, the innocence captured by the artist in angular, colorful shadows. Our youthful joy. Strong lines, and exuberant greens, yellows, and blue.

The flamboyant female artist called the painting The Beaufort Sisters.

We call it The Daisy Sisters.

I dawdle here this morning, smiling up at the painting after I finish my tea. No one to shoo me away with a disapproving look. Monsieur and Madame de Giocomte have gone off to their villa near Deauville to escape the August heat, even though horse racing was suspended, to spend time with Madame’s sister-in-law and her daughter and children. Something they do every summer, and German soldiers wearing armbands with black swastikas weren’t going to stop them. They hold to tradition like so many of the Jewish elite in Paris, like nothing happened. They live in a bubble no Nazi would dare penetrate.

I also believed we were untouchable.

And then I found out I wasn’t.

1

PARIS, AUGUST 1940

Ève

I prick my finger on a sharp thorn when I push aside a red rose to get at my unhappy basil. Limp, droopy leaves that look all out of breath stare back at me. I lament their demise while I suck on my finger to dull the pain, mindful one should never plant such a delicate herb next to a sultry rose bush. The rose always wins.

I sigh. Alors, I have no place else to conduct my science experiments since I graduated secondary school last June. It’s the Nazis’ fault, of course. The Occupation disrupted the examination schedule and I won’t get the results of my written exams until next month. The oral tests were scrapped, thank God. I pray with all my heart I passed the ‘bac’—the baccalaureate examination—so I can get into the university. If so, I start classes on October 1. Meanwhile, I keep doing my experiments in the gardener’s shed since I’ve nowhere else what with the Nazis and their rules and curfew. They even forced us to set our clocks ahead one hour and operate on German summertime. What next? Strudel instead of macarons?

I wave away a buzzing bee, adding to my frustration.

Lucky for me, it prefers the rose.

It’s hot and stuffy in the shed today, so I head for the double doors at the back of the grand house, sniffing the green basil leaves, eager to breathe in their deep aroma. Barely a scent. I’m not surprised. Not with the hot, searing sun beating down on the large rectangular garden behind the grande maison. The air oozes with a humidity that won’t let up.

I pull off my lace collar and wipe the sweat off the back of my neck. It must be well after the noon hour. I was so deep in communicating with my plants, I lost track of time. I do that often, much to the dismay of my older sister Justine.

You see, I’m her live mannequin.

You’re never around when I need you, Ève, she’s wont to say, teasing me, then pushing back her curly blonde hair from her pretty face. I’d rather be looking through a microscope than in a mirror. I admit standing in the upstairs sewing room in a dress held together by straight pins is not my idea of a productive afternoon. I prefer my nose in a chemistry book or, better yet, in a Petri dish sniffing out my latest experiment. I’m not much for fashion, while Justine has an eye for design like that bee has for flowers. She designs her creations for Madame de Giocomte on a fashion doll, a charming rendition of a lady standing more than a third of a meter high with a real-hair blonde wig, painted features, and glass blue eyes that look straight at you. Madame insists the doll belonged to her grandmother in Russia half a century ago.

Now it’s Justine’s pride and joy.

Then, draping silk, velvet, or taffeta over my tall, lean body, she brings her designs to life. Day dresses. Suits. Gowns. Next, feathers and netting for hats. Justine loves making hats. A stylish hat gives a woman confidence, Eve. Not me. I feel silly when she makes me try them on and the feathers make me sneeze.

I’m pondering what pinned-together frock my sister will have me wiggle into today in this heat—most likely that cotton strawberry print I saw her working on—when I hear sounds coming from the library. Is that Justine calling me?

No more time to commiserate with my poor basil. I undo the top two buttons on my plain gray dress, wet with sweat. With the basil clamped between my teeth, I pull back my long hair with a ribbon I borrowed from Justine.

Pink velvet.

‘It becomes you, Ève,’ Justine said the other day, pulling it out of her wicker basket filled with fabric scraps.

‘It’s pink,’ I protested, wrinkling my nose. ‘Little girls wear pink.’

‘Big girls do, too. And lipstick and cake mascara⁠—’

‘You mean black shoe polish,’ I said, smug. ‘You don’t have to study chemistry to know that.’ I have no time for that female nonsense, but Justine doesn’t understand that.

‘Oh, Ève. What am I to do with you?’

When I saw how her light eyes turned a deep blue-gray of sadness, I borrowed her lipstick just to see her smile.

‘Happy now?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘Very. Now for the final touch.’ She tied my hair back with the ribbon and gave me a hug. ‘There. You look lovely.’

I didn’t argue with her, but we both know the truth is I’m not pretty, so why bother? Yet Justine sees something in me I don’t and when I asked her what that is, she said, ‘You’re a strong young woman, little sister, with classic high cheekbones and full lips. You just haven’t grown into it yet.’

And with that she was off, teasing me about my experimenting, like how I insist plants speak a silent language they emit through their smell. Vibrant, sharp. Mellow. Sweet. And in some cases, rotting, moldy. A way of communicating their unique place at nature’s table, I tell her and, if the table is set correctly, I believe we can harness their essences to cure disease. It’s no secret honey was used centuries ago to treat battle wounds and fight infection, and that garlic protects against bacteria. Her eyes widen and her full lips form a perfect Ooh, but I don’t think she believes me. She’d never say so. Instead she smiles and leaves me be. I feel in my gut I’m right. I studied the work of the British bacteriologist Dr Alexander Fleming last semester at the Lycée Louis-le-Grand, the secondary school I attended on Rue Saint-Jacques. There I came across a fascinating theory about a type of mold that can kill bacteria. My chemistry teacher encouraged me to pursue this line of study. Maman was keen on me becoming a perfumer’s apprentice at the famous House of Doujan here in Paris, but I convinced her my heart is into healing, not seduction.

Speaking of the feminine arts…

I’m fortunate Maman doesn’t have any interest in marrying me off. Justine, yes. She’s her golden child. Talented, pretty, and with the kindest heart. I adore her, too. I wish I could inhale a whiff of her power over Maman, over everyone Justine meets who falls under her spell. She’s a marvel with people, empathizing with them and listening to them. No wonder they trust her with their secrets.

Me… I’m more like the ugly duckling without a pond to swim in. Big feet, taller than most girls my age, I hunch over to hide from everyone. I’m fine with that. I have my test tubes lined up on a worktable in the gardener’s shed and my experiments to occupy my mind and my soul. I want to help people and that leaves no time for romance. I pray with all my heart I passed my exams so I can enter the Sorbonne to study the sciences. Madame de Giocomte is rooting for me, too. She was so grateful to me for helping her cure her migraines—securing butterbur extract for her did the trick—that when Maman showed her my professor’s recommendation along with the fact I’d graduated at the top of my class, she promised she’d use her influence to help me get accepted to university.

If I pass my exams.

Now I count the days until I get the test results, my head spinning with so many possibilities, like making scientific discoveries as Madame Curie once did, and pushing the Nazis and the Occupation out of my mind.

Which is why I pay little attention to the sound of a loud motorcar outside racing its engine. It couldn’t be the de Giocomtes. They took the train from Gare Saint-Lazare to the Brittany coast and aren’t due back for two weeks. Who, then? French citizens rarely drive now because we can’t buy gasoline. Another annoying restriction the Nazis laid down. Adding to my solitude is the fact the two maids, Lucie and Albertine, who stayed behind left early this morning to line up in queues for bread and cheese. Lucie is a sweet girl with rosy cheeks and red braids, while Albertine is a stern young woman with deep brown eyes. They make up the housekeeping staff since the gardener left for the Free Zone and the chauffeur followed soon after, giving Justine and me the run of the house. Justine loves trying on Madame de Giocomte’s posh hats with trailing veils, and Maman is upstairs in her sewing room on the third floor, knitting woolen scarfs for the French soldiers languishing in German POW camps. The incessant heat doesn’t stop her. Ever since she saw the lists of young men taken prisoner posted on the window of L’Aide au Soldat, she can think of nothing else.

‘Who else is going to help those poor boys if I don’t?’ she laments, gathering up her blue and green and gray wool for socks she knits with a mother’s love even if they’re not her own. She’s that way and often sits with Madame de Giocomte in the sewing room discussing Madame’s charity work, the two women as thick as pea soup when it comes to helping others.

I frown. I believe Maman feels guilty because she has no sons to sacrifice for our country. She mumbles how the boys need scarves to keep their necks warm in winter. Her despair that Paris will still be occupied has transferred to her busy fingers, because she doesn’t want to think about how her world has changed. How there will be no more fancy masquerades when Madame changes her costume every hour, each stitch done by Maman, or when Madame invites the corps de ballet to dance in the garden for her guests and Maman sews satin ribbons on snow white slippers for the dancers, the ballerinas giggling and hovering beside her.

She glowed like a fairy godmother.

Now she hides in her room.

Grumbling how she fears the Nazis will drag her from her bed.

Justine and I assure her that won’t happen. Yet I can’t ignore the sound of… jackboots pacing up and down in the library?

I stop short. Intruders. Oh, God, Nazis? Here?

Impossible.

The afternoon turns sour like green apples spiked with vinegar when I glance out the long window not covered by a blackout curtain in daytime. I see a big, black Mercedes motorcar parked in the winding driveway, a German soldier leaning against the car, his black boot parked on the running board. I furrow my brow. What do Nazis want here?

I sniff the basil, thinking. Could there be trouble at Monsieur de Giocomte’s bank? I overheard him telling Madame de Giocomte about the Vichy government doing away with anti-Semitism laws and requiring the Aryanization of Jewish businesses and going so far as to appoint non-Jewish administrators.

But not the de Giocomtes, he told his wife. We’re French citizens and enjoy protection. We’re above the law and have nothing to worry about here at Maison Bleue, he assured Madame and the staff when France surrendered to the Reich in June. The Nazis acted cordially when he presented himself to the Kommandant in charge. The German High Command was more interested in confiscating residences on Avenue Foch, now known as Avenue Boche, than on our quiet street hidden off the Rue de Monceau, a street so tiny it’s not written on any map.

Still, worry creases my brow.

With good reason. My jaw drops and I crush the herb in my fist when I see two German soldiers loading canvases of paintings into a truck covered with a tarpaulin.

No, that’s impossible.

Monsieur de Giocomte’s treasures. Renoir. Degas. The Impressionists.

Who let the Boches in? How did they know where to find the paintings?

I race down the long hall toward the library, my mind scrambling like dominos falling one after another faster than my heartbeats. I’m desperate to stop this madness. Who? Why is this happening? My brain forces the logic down my throat that I don’t want to believe. That an informant—someone the de Giocomtes trust—betrayed them. It could be anyone. A business associate, servant, even a passing acquaintance intrigued by the stories Madame de Giocomte loves to recount with her lady friends over tea in the garden room of the Hôtel Ritz.

My mind bursts into shards of Murano glass, my security shattered when I slide open the heavy oak door to the library. I can’t believe what I see. A tall SS officer staring up at a painting. Our painting.

The Daisy Sisters.

Justine and me.

My God… no, he can’t have it. I won’t let him.

In spite of my loud assertions about not indulging in female primping, I want to be pretty. And in that painting, I am. The artist made my hair lighter, nose perkier, lips fuller, and emphasized my already prominent cheekbones. I cling to the notion that if I stare at the painting long enough, I will look like that girl.

And now this Nazi is taking that from me? No.

I panic when the SS officer gives an order in German and the soldier starts to remove the painting. It’s not a large painting, and it’s set in a simple but elegant frame. That doesn’t mean he can just take it. The Daisy Sisters doesn’t belong to me, but I have rights.

‘Don’t touch that painting, monsieur!’ I cry out.

Young, impulsive.

‘Mademoiselle dares to question an officer of the Reich?’ he says in French, spinning around. ‘I can have you shot.’

‘You won’t.’

I don’t know why I said that.

‘No?’ He raises a brow.

‘No. You wouldn’t want my blood splattered all over the beautiful brushstrokes, n’est-ce pas?’

‘Why would you care?’

‘It’s a painting of me, monsieur.’

‘You, mademoiselle?’ This new information produces a smirk and a step backward. ‘Ah… I see the resemblance. You’ve grown up, mademoiselle.’ Before I can stop him, he orders the soldier to remove the painting and stack it with the others in the truck, then he grabs me by the arm and squeezes it tight. I wince. ‘Are you the daughter of the family?’ he demands.

‘No, monsieur, my mother works here as a seamstress for madame.’

‘And the older girl with the lovely face and figure,’ he drools. ‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know, monsieur.’ I refuse to give up Justine. He holds me tighter, squeezing my arm so tight my eyes bug out, the pain burning my flesh.

‘Must I ask you again?’

‘Please, monsieur, let me go.’

‘Since you refuse to cooperate, mademoiselle, I shall take both you and the painting as spoilage.’ He slams me against the wall, rattling my brains, making my teeth chatter while a shocking, hot pain shoots up my spine. I go numb. He pins me against the wall and I can’t move a muscle when he shoves his hand under my cotton dress and forces my legs apart.

His intent is clear. Rip off my dress and then⁠—

But he doesn’t. He switches gears. Like a devil teasing his victim with licks of fire. He runs his gloved hand up and down the bare skin on my thighs above my stockings, snapping the garters, taunting me. Panting hard.

‘You will find me a good lover, mademoiselle, strong and powerful,’ he purrs in my ear. His frightening words reek of a self-confidence that sends chills through me.

I’ve heard rumors the Nazis are cold, sadistic bastards and not the blonde gods they purport to be on posters plastered around the city. Like the one I saw with a Nazi helping French orphans with the caption, Have faith in the German soldier.

I wanted to believe no one could be that debauched.

I was wrong.

I know I’ll never forget the cold, guttural tones of the major’s voice, his eyes marbled with gray and black, his look lustful and void of all humanity when he slides his gloved hand up and down my inner thigh. ‘You like chocolate, mademoiselle, smooth and melting on your tongue?’ he asks, his eyes glistening as he licks his lips. ‘Silk stockings?’

‘Let me be, monsieur, I want nothing from you or any Nazi.’

Why is he trying to seduce me? To calm me down? Subdue me?

‘You disappoint me, mademoiselle. Paris is the city of love. It’s your duty to⁠—’

‘No, never!’

‘I want you, mademoiselle, and it will be better for you if you cooperate. Now, stand still!’ His voice is authoritative, no longer teasing but demanding, hissing ugly words at me and I know I’m lost.

By now I’m screaming, my voice hoarse. The fluttering of fear I felt moments ago explodes into a raging inferno of terror like I’ve never known before. He abandons his cordial promises and sets his evil will upon me. What happens next is so ugly, so horrible, I block it out, his hands invading my most private places, scalding my skin with his brutal touch until I hear⁠—

‘Let her go, monsieur.’

A low, husky voice.

Justine.

Standing in an arc of sunlight, holding the fashion doll, she’s a painting come to life, every inch of her womanly and golden and warm. My older sister with the porcelain skin and wavy blonde hair like a Jumeau doll, a creature not of this earth but one who lives in her own special world of silk and chiffon, lace and satin.

No man can resist her.

This girl with a smile as bright as a daisy and just as fragile tries to buck the wind from the east. To save me. Her sister. I’m not surprised. Justine is that way. Outspoken. Daring. We may want different things in life, but we’re close. Like two buttons sewn on a sweater. We’d never abandon each other.

And she won’t abandon me now.

Her hand to her throat, her eyes wide, she steps forward. ‘I repeat, monsieur,’ she says, gritting her teeth. ‘Take your hands off my sister.’ She pleads with the SS officer to let me go, but she doesn’t know the price she’s about to pay for her courage.

‘Your sister?’ His voice deepens, his interest piqued.

‘Yes. She’s impulsive and didn’t mean to offend you.’

‘I’ll let her go,’ he gloats, ‘if you trade places with her.’

‘Monsieur!’ Shocked, she clutches the doll to her chest.

‘It’s your choice, mademoiselle. I intend to have one of you.’ He looks from Justine to me. ‘Or both.’

Justine raises her chin, her steel-blue eyes defiant. ‘You wouldn’t dare, monsieur.’

‘Wouldn’t I?’

‘This is the residence of Monsieur de Giocomte, an esteemed war hero, a gentleman of business revered by his peers, a well-known and respected Parisian philanthropist.’

‘And a Jew.’

He laughs, then releases me. I’m numb, unsure what to do. I can’t leave Justine. I can’t.

‘Run, Ève!’

‘I’m not leaving you, Justine, I won’t.’

‘Sehr gut.’ The SS officer’s blue eyes flash with a mixture of anticipation and amusement. ‘You present a tempting proposition, mademoiselle.’ He grabs Justine by the arm. She tries to resist, but his grip tightens. ‘I want you first.’

‘For God’s sake, Ève, run!’ Justine yells.

‘No!’

‘I’m begging you, Ève. Don’t worry about me, think about Maman.’

‘But—’

‘Go… and don’t look back!’

I nod. Yes, I understand, our dear sweet mother will never recover from the trauma if she sees her daughter suffering an act so vile at the hands of the SS. It makes me retch.

I start up the three flights of stairs, my heart beating wildly, then I hear Justine scream. I turn, see the major fondle her breasts; she resists, he slaps her, she hits him in the face with the doll, he grabs it and tosses it across the room, smashing the doll onto the marble tile floor, its delicate porcelain head cracked, its blue glass enamel eyes closed. Forever.

I must go to my sister.

I race back down the stairs. Justine shakes her head wildly from side to side when she sees me, again her eyes begging me to go. Run! Then she pulls her ripped dress across her chest, the lace trimming on her slip hanging in pieces, and in a whisper, she promises to go with the Nazi officer.

Then she lowers her head.

The SS bastard has the nerve to smirk, click his heels and nod in my direction. Then he yells the words that will forever sicken me. ‘Heil Hitler.’

Justine gives me one long, last look before he pulls her along behind him, her high heels then his jackboots tapping in my ears like the beats of a funeral drum.

Then silence.

She’s gone.

‘Justine… No… No!’

Knees wobbling, heart pounding, I make my way across the hall, one step at a time, not making a sound, my brain not processing what I saw, not believing, my fingers shaking as I pick up the doll, its head dangling off its shoulders, blonde wig askew.

Its painted smile turned upside down.

I crush the broken doll to my chest, a disturbing scent hitting my nostrils, the SS officer’s sweat mixing with my sister’s natural perfume. A tightness in my chest so severe grabs me, like the Nazi stomped his boot on me and made my heart stop beating. I hover between a dark place and an even deeper darkness made all the more surreal because I can’t cry. I won’t. Where my world was once filled with the aroma of sweet basil, the prick of an arrogant rose, and a busy bee, the air is now thickened with power and lust and evil.

No tears, not now. Nothing but anguish for the sister I adore, along with a need for revenge as sharp as my anger. Somewhere out there in the city of Paris, this young woman is in the grips of an enemy more evil than I imagined. That this despicable SS officer holds her dignity and her life in his hands, that I can hear her desperate plea for mercy in my mind and I’m powerless to help her.

And that no matter how many times I play the scene back, I know only one thing to be true.

It should have been me.

2

PARIS, AUGUST 1940

Justine

The evil deed is done.

Ripped stockings, my underwear pushed down around my ankles, the buttons ripped from my cotton dress, I lie in the backseat of the black Mercedes with the Nazi flag on the hood. Alone. No one would dare approach the parked motorcar hidden under a green canopy of oak trees near the park. I can’t stop shivering while clamping my thighs together to ease the pain in my groin, touching the stickiness between my legs with my fingers, wondering: Why me?

What did I do wrong to make me a victim of rape?

I obey the rules of the church, pray to the saints for courage, had saved myself for marriage even when temptation and hot kisses from a young man I fancied begged me to give in to the stirrings within me. Now I can never love any man, share his bed, bear his child. I’m ruined in the eyes of God, yet I wonder, does He know?

If He does, how could He let this happen to me?

I’ll never forget the sickening ordeal, the major kissing my lips, my breasts. My skin cold to his touch, I recoiled inwardly and cut off my feelings. I didn’t whimper and sigh as he wanted me to; that made him angry and he ripped my stockings from their garters and pulled down my panties. I beat my fists against his chest, praying I had leverage in the motorcar, the black curtains on the back windows drawn to hide his deed, his aide de camp keeping guard, the smell of tobacco lingering in the air. I yelled out. He cupped his hand over my mouth until I quieted down before restraining my wrists with his uniform belt. Still, I wouldn’t give in. I yelled out hoarse threats, trying to kick him.

‘Be still, mademoiselle, or⁠—’

‘I don’t care what you do to me.’ I swallowed hard. ‘I’ll not give you what you want.’

‘Then you leave me no choice.’

I heard the cock of a pistol and felt the cold metal pressed to my temple. I braced for the inevitable loud click before my world went black in a burst of gunfire.

Then—

‘If you don’t do as I wish, I shall return to the maison of the de Giocomtes.’ He leaned down, hissing his words between his teeth. ‘And shoot your mother and sister.’

‘No, you wouldn’t,’ I cried out, alarmed. ‘They’re innocent.’

‘Not if I say they’re guilty of attacking an officer of the Reich.’ He sucked in his breath. ‘Now, shall we both enjoy ourselves?’

Never, I screamed inside, the terror in Ève’s hazel-green eyes more vivid than ever in my mind, the wretched fear we both had of seeing our maman