CHAPTER ONE THE STRANGERS Paris, October 6, 1938

Late afternoon, at the Louvre, Hélène Simard, twenty years old, studied and copied Monet’s La Charette, Route sous la neige — Honfleur. She did not notice, but a man stood behind her at a distance. He did not move, nor did he say anything. As she gathered her brushes and paint tubes, he came forward and introduced himself. He was Hans Werner from Germany, and he was a fellow art student. “I admired your ability to reproduce the various shades of white in Monet’s painting,” he said. He was a tall man, mid twenties with an athletic body, blond hair, and blue eyes. His eyes struck her first. They were bright, ardent, intelligent, and sapphire blue. Hélène sensed an attraction to him, and she loved his cute German accent. “I’m Canadian,” she said. “We have a lot of snow in Canada, and it comes in all shades. But I still have much to learn, and that’s why I’m here. I started at l’École Nationale des Beaux-Arts last month.” “This is my final year at l’École Nationale!” Hans said.

He helped gather her things and together they left the Louvre and crossed the Seine on Pont des Arts. They walked in silence, both hoping the other would speak. Once on the Left Bank, they stopped, realizing he was going right, and she left. “This coming weekend,” Hans said, “will probably be the last before colder weather comes. How about having a picnic at the Jardin des Tuileries, next Sunday?” Hélène felt the urge to accept, but she said, “I need to check with my roommate; she may have plans for us on Sunday. I’ll be painting at the same spot tomorrow. Stop by and I’ll let you know.” Watching him as he walked toward Rue Bonaparte, she had to admire his long, resolute gait. She was a short distance from the small furnished apartment she shared with Milaine, a thirty-something art student from Belgium.

“How was your day?” Milaine asked. “Your grin tells me it was good.” “I met the most stunning man and he invited me to a picnic,” Hélène said, bouncing from foot to foot, and then deciding to place her painting material on the floor. “I want to go, but I’m not sure I should. He’s gorgeous, and he has the cutest accent, but I don’t know…” “Hold on, hold on,” Milaine said. “Who is he? Where is he from? What kind of cute accent?” “His name is Hans Werner,” Hélène recounted, pacing. “He’s from Berlin—” “Hélène, never trust a German!” Milaine stopped for a moment for emphasis.“None of us Belgians do, after what they did to us during the Great War.” “You don’t understand. You should see him; he’s so handsome.”

“Such a good-looking man is probably married,” Milaine said, “or more likely in a liaison.” “He doesn’t wear a ring.” “Hélène, you’re so naïve. What if he is one of these Nazi maniacs we see in magazines and newsreels in the movie theatres?” “He’s so nice,” Hélène said, pouring herself a glass of Chablis in one of the two cheap wine glasses that came with the apartment. “I’ll ask him all these questions next Sunday.”