The German army marched into Chilon on June 24, 1940. Josette Lafleur was among hundreds of people who watched the soldiers hang the Nazi flag from the balcony of the town hall. The German commander, with the mayor and police chief of Chilon standing uncomfortably at his side, addressed the assembled crowd in poor French. He promised a fair occupation -- but the plaza was ringed by dozens of German soldiers, rifles and sub-machine guns at the ready.

Josette walked home with her friend Lise. “What of our husbands?” Neither of them had news of their husbands who were conscripted soldiers.

“They will return soon,” answered Lise confidently, not daring to mention what both feared -- that their husbands were dead or prisoners of the Germans. “But until then, how will we live?”

“I have food in my cellar and my garden grows well. The children and I can endure the summer.”

“By fall surely everything will be normal again.”

Josette’s house was at the edge of the village. It was of stone, two stories in height, ancient and faded in grandeur, surrounded by well-tended gardens of flowers and vegetables. Her husband Antoine had inherited the house. His salary as a schoolteacher was inadequate for its upkeep. Josette, of modest parentage, loved the house despite its primitive discomforts.

Her children, Marie, ten years old, and Claude, eight years old, were waiting on the front porch. She had told them to stay inside. They were excited rather than frightened by the arrival of the Germans. “Mama,” asked Marie, “Did you see the motorcycles?”

“And the tanks and the machine guns?” added Claude. “Will we go to school now that the Germans are here?”

“Yes, of course,” answered Josette. “We must continue our lives as normal.”

“When will Papa come home?” asked Marie.

“Soon, I hope.” She was most worried about the loss of the monthly stipend paid her by the French army as the wife of a soldier. She hardly missed her husband, but she had no income of her own. Married at age 17, a mother at 18, she had never had a job. An insistent knock at the door came the next morning. Josette was dressed in her gardening clothes, a sleeveless, wrap-around dress of faded gray and white stripes printed on thin cotton cloth. It fell to just below her knees and had a loose, v-shaped neck that revealed the hint of a cleft between her breasts. Her hair was tied into a pony tail and hung loosely down her back. She rushed to the door, brushing from her face a wayward lock of light brown hair and pulled the heavy wooden door open, expecting Lise or another of her friends. Instead three German soldiers in uniform stood on her stone porch. One of them held a submachine gun in his hands; the other two had pistols holstered on their hips.

“Madame,” said the oldest of the three, clicking his heels together and saying in heavily accented French, “Lieutenant Albert Krueger will be staying with you in this house.”

“What?” Josette asked in astonishment. “What is this?”

“Our German soldiers need housing. You have a large house. You may easily accommodate the Lieutenant.”

“But,” she began, flustered, a nervous hand tightening the loose cloth of her dress against her throat.

“He will take meals with you when he is not on duty.”

“I have no food to share. I must feed my children and I have no money.”

“It is decided,” the soldier said, and the three pushed their way through the door. They looked around the house. “The Lieutenant will need a room of his own. You will have that.”

“Yes, but...”

“That is all.” He turned and walked out of the house, followed by the soldier with the submachine gun. The Lieutenant remained, standing uneasily in the middle of her parlor, a rucksack on his back.

At that moment, Marie and Claude appeared. They had been playing in the garden. The children stopped in their tracks, staring at the German soldier.

“Good morning, children,” said the Lieutenant in near perfect French. “I am Albert. I will be staying here.”

“Do you drive a tank?” asked Claude shyly.

“No,” said Albert. “I am only a clerk and an interpreter. Before the war I was a teacher of French in Germany.”

“My father is also a soldier. When will he return from the war?”

“Soon. The British will surrender and the war will be over.”

“Go away, children,” Josette said. “Come, Lieutenant, and we will find a room for you.”

“First,” he said, “I have a gift for you. I bought some croissants at the bakery.” He reached into his rucksack and pulled out a package wrapped in brown paper.

Josette raised a hand to object, but the children rushed to the German’s side.

“Croissants!” cried out Claude. “My mother does not have money for croissants, only poor bread.”

“Shhhh,” said Marie embarrassed. She turned to Josette, “Can we eat them, Mama?”

“I suppose so,” conceded Josette. “I have jam in the pantry.” She looked at the smiling soldier standing beside her and felt a reluctant obligation to him. “Would you join us for breakfast? I have some coffee. Or what we call coffee these days.”

“Compared to Germany, Madame, the food is plentiful and good in France.”

The four of them sat at the ancient, pitted wood table in the kitchen and ate croissants with grape jam Josette had made the previous fall. She was uncomfortable and spoke only in monosyllables to the German sitting beside her. He talked amiably with the children. Krueger was tall, blond, handsome, and young, probably in his early 20s.

Lieutenant Albert Krueger proved to be little trouble in the Lafleur household. Nearly every family in Chilon with a substantial house had one or more German soldiers billeted with them and Josette, listening to the stories of others, was thankful that Krueger was polite, undemanding, and often absent for days or weeks. His facility with French caused his services to be required by the German army over a large area. While present, he contributed to the meager family larder with pastries, good bread, and an occasional chicken or fish. Josette had no money for luxuries. She canned and dried produce from her garden to carry them through the winter.

Josette and dozens of other women in Chilon learned with a shock that their husbands were prisoners of the Germans and would not be released. They would be held as hostages for good behavior by the French. Moreover, contrary to predictions, the British did not surrender, and the occupation of France stretched on endlessly.

For nearly a year after Krueger moved in with her, Josette avoided conversation with him. She called him “Lieutenant” and he called her “Madame.” She knew nothing of his former life, whether or not he was married--she supposed not-- only that he had been a teacher of French. She never spoke to him of her husband, although she had cried uncontrollably at the kitchen table when she heard he would not be returning home. She was terrified of her future without his earnings, even though she had never loved him. Krueger tried to comfort her, but she pushed him away.

Marie also became reserved and distant with Lieutenant Krueger. Her animosity was readily visible, and she rebuffed his efforts to be friendly and the occasional small gifts he brought her. By contrast, Claude liked Krueger. They would sit on the bench outside her back door and talk about Krueger’s experiences in the war. One day, while Josette was washing dishes, she heard Claude ask him,

“Are you a Nazi?”

Josette shouted through the window. “Do not ask that, Claude. It is none of your business.”

“It is okay,” said Krueger. “I am not a Nazi, but I am a German and I must serve my country, just as your father does.” Josette pondered that Claude was getting too familiar with the German soldier. Krueger was becoming an older brother or a father to the boy.

It was a day in June, two years after France surrendered to Germany that Marie did not come to breakfast and was not in her room. Josette was frantic. The girl had become secretive and mysterious. Josette walked to the homes of friends to inquire about Marie, but nobody had seen her. At mid-morning, she went to the police station to report her daughter missing.

It was an unfriendly atmosphere. Six French policemen shared a large room with a German officer in uniform. The lightening slash of the SS was displayed on his collar. The townspeople had come to accept the burden of German soldiers, but feared the fanatical SS and the Gestapo who were increasingly present. Several townspeople had been arrested and disappeared, their fate unknown.

Josette sat down in a chair across from a French policeman behind a desk. He was fat, an unlikely condition in the food-scarce village. While she was telling the policeman about her missing daughter, the SS officer walked came. He sat down casually on the edge of the desk, leaning down until his face was too close to her own. He was tall and thin and his eyes bored into her and his face was twisted into a scowl. She felt a chill.

He spoke French. “What is the name of your daughter?”

“Marie Lafleur.”

“How old is she?”

“Twelve.”

“Do you have a photograph of her?”

“I do.” She handed a photograph to the German.

He studied the photograph closely, then handed it back to her. “She is here. She has been arrested. For subversion.”

“What? She is a child.” Josette tried to rise from her chair, but the German put a hand on her shoulder and pushed her down. The smell of cigarettes was on his breath.

“You will sit and you will be respectful. She is arrested. We will inform you when she has been judged.”

“May I see her?”

“No, you must go home. And you may not speak of this. Am I understood?”

“What can I do to help her? Please!” Josette wrung her hands in agony.

“You will obey. Go to your house. Now!”

Josette walked home in shock. She was sitting at her kitchen table that evening, drinking a cup of tea made from the chamomile she grew in her garden when Lieutenant Krueger came into the house.

“I have brought a piece of bacon for our dinner,” he announced proudly. Josette did not raise her head, but remained staring at her cup of tea. “Is something wrong?”

“Marie has been arrested by the SS. She is in jail.”

“I am sorry to hear that. What did she do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Perhaps I can find out.” He handed her the piece of bacon wrapped in butcher paper. “I will be back in an hour. Perhaps you can cook the bacon for dinner?”

“I will do that. Thank you.”

When he came back, she had set the table for two. She took the pot off the stove and ladled the steaming soup into his bowl and then into her own. “I put cabbage from my garden into the soup. Germans like cabbage.”

Krueger laughed. “Yes, we like cabbage.” He sat down at the table. “Your daughter was caught painting a “V” on a fence. Two boys with her escaped.” The “V” was short for “victory,” and painting it on walls and fences was a manifestation of resistance to the German occupation.

She sat down across from him, her palms joined in a sign of prayer, her knuckles white. “Is that serious?”

“If she were an adult it would be. As a child she will be released in a few days. We do not imprison children.” He paused. “Yet.” He took a spoonful of the soup. “It is delicious.”

“Thank you. The bacon makes it good. It is hard to find these days.” She relaxed in her chair.

“Is there a place where your children could go? Where your daughter would not be watched? It would be safer for her.”

Josette paused before answering, reluctant to reveal information to him. “My sister has a farm. Her husband was killed in the war. She needs help with the work.”

“You must know that you and your children are under suspicion. I have been instructed to observe your activities. Please do not obligate me to report you. Resistance to our presence is becoming more common. We must take severe measures.” He touched her on the arm.

“I know nothing of politics or resistance. I wish only for my children and I to survive this war.” She added as an afterthought. “And for my husband to come home.”

“My wish is the same, Madame. It is only my facility with French that has kept me from being sent to a near certain death in the war in Russia. I enjoy my pleasant life here with you and the children.” He paused. “May I call you Josette?”

“Yes,” she answered after a moment. “And I may call you Albert? But we must only call each other by name when we are alone in this house. It would not be seemly...” She paused.

“Yes, of course. Please pass the bread.”

She handed him the baguette which was full of chaff and tasted like sawdust. She allowed her fingers to rest on his forearm. She thought of her husband, a prisoner in a camp in Germany. She recalled him as arrogant and bitter. All remained of his family’s prominence was a crumbling stone house at the edge of an inconsequential village. He had not been reluctant to tell her that she had married above her station into an old and distinguished family.

As Albert had said, Marie was released. Josette told her that She and Claude were going to the farm to stay with Aunt Jeanne for a time. Marie did not protest. He antagonism to the Germans had been replaced by fear during her several days in jail. Claude hated to leave his friend, the soldier Albert, but he was mollified when told he could eat more and better food on the farm than at home. He was a hungry and growing boy.

With the children away, Josette’s restraint with Albert disappeared. They spent long evenings together sitting in her parlor talking of their lives, their families, the hardships of the present and the more enjoyable times of the past. Albert, she learned, was not married, but was engaged to be married to a girl in Germany who he had not seen for more than a year. He was the son of a postman. His family lived on the border of France and he had learned French as a child. He was valued by his superiors in Chilon as an interpreter and translator.

Josette spoke of her life as the daughter of a farmer and her marriage to Antoine, although not mentioning that she had been pushed into marriage by her parents. All the windows of the house, in accordance with German regulations, were covered with black cloth and they talked by the light of a single oil lamp. The house had no electricity.

When school began in the fall the children stayed with her sister and enrolled there. Josette walked or rode on hay carts to visit them two or three days a week and to help Jeanne who was managing the farm on her own. Marie was afraid to live in Chilon after her arrest by the Germans, and Claude loved the farm. Josette needed to stay home to harvest the food she grew in her garden. Albert and Josette became lovers on a cold night in November. They had talked in the parlor until late at night and they traipsed to their bedrooms together, rubbing shoulders as they climbed the dark, narrow stairs. At the top, they stumbled into each other. He kissed her on the cheek, “Good night, Josette. I am happy living here with you.”

She melted into his arms, and they kissed, and his hungry hands explored the small of her back and her hands pulled him to her and she pressed hard against him. She was breathing hard when they paused.

“I would like to make love to you,” he said.

She didn’t refuse. “I must not get pregnant.”

“I have what is called a French Letter among my things. All soldiers are given them.”

She decided. “Come to my room. I will wait for you and warm the bed. But this is a secret. You may tell nobody. And we must not do this when, if, the children come home.”