Over a week passed before Rousseau was sure Tom could play his part—and play it flawlessly. It took nearly that long for Wilkie’s contacts to track down the hydroquinone needed to develop the film.

Tom looked at the picture in the little green booklet with Deutsches Reich stamped on the cover, above a spread-winged eagle sitting atop a laurel wreath with a swastika in the center. Below the Nazi symbol were the words Arbeitsbuch für Ausländer. It was a labor record book for foreigners and aliens, issued on July 7, 1940.

The green booklet was only part of his identification packet. It told of a civilian employed as a day laborer on a tulip farm, with many rubber stamps and signatures on the pages.

The next booklet, red, with a gold-embossed swastika in the center of a cog, told of the same man now employed at a German munitions factory. There were paper stamps pasted in. No photo for this one; it was some kind of record book. “The German Workforce,” Rousseau translated from the first page. On the inside flyleaf was a quote from Hitler. Rousseau translated some of it for him: “You are not allowed to forget that the nation only lives through the work of everyone. Work is creation. Work is discipline.”

The third and final piece of identification was a beige booklet with a beige slipcover, the word Soldbuch stamped in black, under the eagle clutching the swastika wreath.

He’d had two photos taken. One in civilian clothes for the green booklet, and for that they slicked his hair back, and managed to shadow the wound so that it would not show. He looked younger, as intended. For the Soldbuch booklet, he was in a German uniform. He stared at the photo, hardly believing it was him. Proud, unsmiling, maybe a little anxious.

“Your name,” Michel said.

Tom put the booklets down. “Kees Nieuwenhuis.”

“Where are you from?”

“Andijk, a small town in the northern province.”

“Where was your mother born?”

“Apeldoorn.”

“Your father?”

“Andijk.”

“What were you doing the day your country fell to the Reich?”

“I worked at my uncle’s flower farm in Andijk. Good thing, too; we had tulip bulbs to eat when things got rough.” That was new, and Michel raised an eyebrow. It was true; it was what his aunt told Mother in a letter.

“When did you go to work for the Reich?”

“When I was rounded up with other men from my village. In the razzia, with the other onderduikers.”

It was another addition with which Tom thought he might be impressed, but Michel frowned. “What date?”

“I am not sure of the date. I know it was September 1941.”

“How long did you work in the factory?”

“Six months at the first one. Because I had an exemplary record, I soon rose to leader of my section. I was transferred to another factory.”

“Where were the factories located?”

Tom hesitated for only a second. “The first, in Berndorf—”

“Unblinking, unhesitating. From the top.”

Tom’s face flushed. “I can do this.”

Michel ran through the questions from the beginning, his tone never varying from that of a probing interrogator.

“Where were the factories located?”

“The first in Berndorf, Austria. The second was a factory called Berthawerk, near Auschwitz.”

“What did you make?”

“Artillery fuses.”

“At what point were you approached to join the German army?”

“When they saw my talents were wasted on fuses.”

“Prior to this, how long were you a member of the Dutch Nazi Party?”

“I signed up in ’38, with several friends.”

“How do you feel about joining the army that conquered your nation?”

“If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.”

Michel wearily rubbed his eyebrows.

“I thought that was a good improvise. It felt natural.”

“For an American,” Michel said, exasperated. “That has an American sound to it. You do not respect how good these people are. They will smell American on you. My job, Tom, is to make you odor free. From the top. Unblinking, unhesitating, unimprovising. Do the drill as you are trained, soldier.”

That did it. Soon a little anger and shame produced an interrogation that put even Michel at ease. After Tom had flawlessly completed the first, Michel started the next.

“What business do you have at the Rousseau Cimenterie?”

“I was transferred here by orders of Rommel himself to survey the Dutch conscripts posted to the Atlantic Wall in the Normandy sector—”

“Put a little more swagger into it. Rommel is a demigod to the Germans.”

“I was transferred here by order of Rommel himself. I am to survey the Dutch conscripts—”

“Good.”

“—assigned to Normandy construction sites.”

“What is Rommel’s designation?”

“Marshal Erwin Rommel, inspector of coastal defenses, commander of Army Group B. He has reunited the Seventh and the Fifteenth Armies north of the Loire. I have been assigned as his emissary to the Rousseau Cimenterie to observe and report any signs of subversion within the Dutch conscripted labor. It is suspected that information has been passing from and to the Netherlands through Normandy. Since I speak English and Dutch as well as a little German, I am well suited to secret observance.”

“Good. Except I asked you one question. Did I ask about your orders?”

“No.”

“Did I ask if you spoke English and Dutch as well as German?”

Tom flushed. “No.”

“Did I ask if you are well suited to secret observance?”

“No.”

“I speak Dutch, Cabby. I’ve never volunteered that, and why? Because you never asked. You just volunteered information I never asked; because of this they will suspect you. They will be unsure of what they suspect, and they will come after you.” Michel rubbed his temples. “From the top. Unblinking. Unhesitating. Unimprovising. And terse. What business do you have at the Rousseau Cimenterie?”

“I was transferred here by Rommel himself . . .”

Make Rousseau believe you can pull it off. Make him believe, and he’ll be okay. Nothing Tom had seen in two weeks made him think this Frenchman was anything other than capable and committed. He didn’t know what Rafael was talking about, that the man had shown weariness, that he didn’t believe anymore; all Tom had seen was relentless pursuit of perfection, like Pavretti, his drill sergeant back home.

Tom liked Michel’s determination. The repetition could very well save his life. If Michel seemed tired, he had a lot to do; if his eyes had dark, puffy smudges beneath them, it was no different than the other Rousseau, probably a family trait. And if at times he seemed sad or depressed . . . well, if you were French, these were depressing times.

Rousseau asked the final question, Tom answered, and the older man eased back in his chair to study the younger. Then he smiled a very small smile, and Tom felt a silly wave of pride. Well, it wasn’t easy to please this man.

“Very good. You know who you are, and you made me believe it. All I have left is this: stay alert at all times. The moment you let your guard down is the moment something will happen, and trust me, it will. Here in France, we are under a cloud of darkness. Anything that has hope in it, anything that moves toward freedom will attract darkness. In a very dark place, a little light stands out all the more. Do not shine.”

“I will do my best.”

“You misunderstand me. I do not want your best. I want perfection.”

It was hard to assent to perfection, but Tom thought of Rafael and nodded.

They sat in the study of Rousseau’s apartment, the nicely furnished room of a man with money and taste. Tom had never been in a more elegant setting, actually. Mother kept the home neat and tidy, and there was always the smell of something cooking, which to Tom meant a different kind of wealth; here, the place smelled of tobacco and wood polish and papers and books. It smelled important. Clemmie’s place had a feeling closer to home; this place felt wise, and troubled, and on the brink. Maybe because of the meetings that constantly took place here; maybe because Gestapo headquarters was two city blocks over.

In the first days here, Tom had wanted to help out in some way. He wanted action so desperately that one evening he thought he’d surprise Rousseau and cook supper. He scoured the icebox and found a small package of bacon, a little milk, some eggs, and cheese. He found a few potatoes in the cupboard, and an onion. He pulled out a black cast-iron pan and went to work.

That evening Monsieur Rousseau came home to a table set for two, with the splendid black skillet placed in the middle of the table, steaming with Tom’s labor, a casserole-hash type of meal that, to Tom’s satisfaction, wasn’t far from what his own mother could have done.

Rousseau was quiet during the meal. Tom attributed his stiff manner to the fact that Rousseau usually made the suppers, and maybe felt awkward at Tom putzing around the kitchen on his turf. Tom might have felt the same way, if the roles were reversed.

Later, while Rousseau spoke with Wilkie, Tom mentioned the meal he had prepared to Rafael.

Rafael got a funny look. “You used all the bacon Monsieur Rousseau had? How much?”

Tom shrugged. “Not much. Maybe a quarter pound.”

Rafael made a very small sound. “And how many eggs did you use?”

“Four.”

Rafael coughed, cleared his throat. “Tell me. Please. How much of the cheese did you use?”

“All of it. There wasn’t much.”

The next question sounded strangled. “How many . . . please, how many potatoes?”

“Four.”

Rafael whimpered as he clapped a hand alongside his face, a man caught between admiration and another very strong emotion. He finally managed to say, “My dear Cabby—you just used two weeks’ ration of eggs and potatoes, and an entire month’s ration of bacon and cheese.”

Oh no. “On one meal.”

“On one meal,” Rafael squeaked. “Why didn’t you invite me?”

It was the last time Tom cooked.

Rousseau’s face, this evening, was placid. The fellas would say he was a man who kept his cards close to the vest. It had been so for two weeks. Now he seemed like a man ready to put a few cards on the table. But before Tom could ask a question, and he had many, Rousseau beat him to it.

He glanced at the three booklets Tom shuffled in his hands. “I have found that before a mission, there comes a calm in which everything that can be done has been done. Perhaps this is similar with battles. I wouldn’t know. I have not served in the military.”

“It’s like that.” Tom shrugged, thinking of the bunk room in the big house where his squad was quartered. No one would ever talk of the mission the next day, especially if it was a big one.

“The more I get to know you, the more I do not believe what you told me at the first, that this is a chance to do something for the Cause.”

Tom paused in shuffling the booklets. “Why is that important?”

“Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it is. What is your motive for taking on this very dangerous job?” He took a cigarette from a metal case and lit up.

“My motive?” Tom said, starting to get annoyed. “I’m doing what you want me to do. Why should you care?”

“Oh, I will tell you why.” He shook out the match and tossed it in the ashtray. “A mission can depend upon what started it. If my motive is not strong enough, then later I get confused, and I drift; I need to find my way back to the beginning and remember why I got involved in the first place. I need to go back to motive, and find it strong. If it is not strong, then I lose . . . oh . . . what is a good English word. My follow-through.” He made a pushing motion. “I lose that which pushes me from behind to follow through.”

“Your power.”

Rousseau waved his hand, as if that wasn’t quite the word but would do. “Oui. My power. You must not lose yours. What is the source of your power for this mission? Where does it begin?” When Tom did not answer, he added, “What is your story?”

Tom shuffled the booklets more slowly and finally stopped. “Once upon a time there was a mother. A good mother. And Germany bombed Rotterdam. And the mother’s sister died. The end.” He resumed shuffling.

“Revenge,” Rousseau said, as if he hadn’t expected it.

“Sure.”

“I hope you find something else.”

“She’s some mother.”

“I do not doubt. Maybe she is enough. Revenge is not. It does not have enough in it.”

That seemed a ridiculous thing to say. Not enough in revenge? What about Hitler’s revenge? This war was supposed to be payback for the first, and so far the world had paid in spades. But, he thought sourly, how could he argue? He was younger, he hadn’t lived in an occupied country for four years—to Rousseau, he couldn’t possibly have enough credibility for a viable point. He cast about to change the subject.

“I’ve been thinking about the prostitute. What do you know of her?” Tom looked from the booklets to Michel. He was smoking contentedly. He wasn’t used to Rousseau content. “Why does she do what she does?”

Michel breathed out a column of smoke. He gave the little shrug Tom was beginning to associate with all Frenchmen. “You will have to ask her.”

“How can a girl—?” He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “It’s degrading, isn’t it? Here or in America. I keep thinking about what Rafael said, if Canada invaded Michigan. What if one of the girls I knew from high school did that?”

“You would be disgusted?”

“You bet I would! If Canada’s the enemy, and they occupy us like the Germans, and then a girl from Jenison High sleeps with an enemy Canadian . . . that’s treason. In my eyes, it is. How is it for you?”

Michel nodded slowly. “About the same.”

“At the very least, it’s a bad thing to do. Here is what I don’t understand: this Brigitte is doing something bad, and now she’s doing something good, and brave, something that could save a lot of Allied lives and get her arrested and killed. How do you figure that?”

“What do you mean?”

“How do you explain it? It’s suspicious to me. Maybe she’s a double agent. Have you thought about that?”

Michel shook his head. “She has been doing something to get herself arrested for over a year. We learned of Brigitte through a woman who runs another cell. Brigitte had discovered that this woman hid downed Allied airmen. Instead of denouncing Madame Vion, she’s been bringing the Allies food—once or twice a week.” Rousseau smiled wryly. “All the while, running her brothel. Now try to figure her out.”

Tom whistled. Rousseau stiffened, and Tom winced. “Sorry.”

“Do not whistle, Cabby. Ever, ever, ever.” He muttered something in French, then adjusted his shoulders, and said more mildly, “So. How do you feel about meeting her? How do you feel about dealing with a prostitute?”

“I’m not sure. It’s not like Jenison has—and I’ve never—I mean, I was seventeen, I quit school to join up, and . . .” He scratched his jaw and chuckled nervously, glad for a moment that the guys weren’t around. “I guess that’s beside the point, right?” He felt his face begin to warm. He’d had plenty of time to think about meeting her. Since she was a prostitute, what if she expected . . . ? She wouldn’t, would she? Of course not, why would she? And would he . . . ? No! He shifted in his seat. Not the first time, with a prostitute. What she’s doing is treason twice—treason to her country and treason to her gender.

What if she’s pretty?

What if she’s got a great figure?

What if I’m tempted?

His face flamed. He cleared his throat and said roughly, “So what about you? Have you met her?”

Rousseau shook his head. “No. And I am glad.”

Tom nodded grimly. “Because, as a Frenchman, what she does disgusts you.”

The contentedness finally drifted from Rousseau’s face. He leaned forward to press out the cigarette. “Because I cannot hold in my arms one more woman who has died for freedom. I do not have it in me.”

Tom began to shuffle the booklets.

“I guess you’ll have to go back to your beginning,” Tom presently said.

“Nothing there is strong enough.”