Paris, February 1946

Sabine Brouillette’s apartment was cold, much colder than it had been during the war when she had been warmed by the hope that tyranny could be defeated and life could be beautiful again. Her chilblained fingers hovered over the saucepan. The flame on the burner she was using to heat the water could go out at any moment. Utilities, along with bread, coffee, oil and sugar, were still rationed for everyday Parisians, while across the river fashion houses were staging shows again and the automobile industry was producing cars based on German design. Wasn’t that what General de Gaulle had said should happen? The days of weeping are over. The days of glory have returned. France would rise again.

Sabine took her coffee and hunk of dry bread to the dining room. The long table was made of walnut and had seating for ten. She placed herself at the end and stared out at the view of the slate rooftops of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. She was only thirty-six and still had plenty of life ahead of her. Her dark hair had grown back to its pre-war lustre and her olive skin had plumped out again. But ever since she had come back from the camp, she had felt as though she was living in a state of suspended animation. She was waiting for something – or someone. But for what? For whom? Everyone who mattered was dead. The apartment had once been filled with people and music. Now it was like a grave, the air frozen, the lopsided books on the shelves untouched, the grand piano covered in dust.

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