Introduction

Paris: 1942 Three lives intertwined in Nazi-occupied Paris: Paul, a brooding banker whose family was killed by the Gestapo, Rachel, a teenage Jew who leads her family's escape from the Germans, Claire, a demure bookstore owner who finds courage and conviction - all confronted by an infamous Nazi collaborator. In the sprawling network of catacombs underneath the Left Bank of Paris, they hide thousands of Jewish refugees, giving them new identities and leading them to safety. Together they move forward, outsmarting a ruthless enemy, overcoming obstacles, defying danger, moving farther and faster, almost invincible. Until an innocent bystander notices something amiss and their entire world collapses around them.

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Excerpt

Chapter 1

Paris, France

July 17, 1942

It was the French police who came for the Jews. Over thirteen thousand were selected, their names chosen by raffle. But they were foreign Jews, mostly from Eastern Europe. That was supposed to make it acceptable to a city crushed by the Nazi occupation. But it didn’t.

The Abzac family avoided capture. A customer in their shoe repair shop was friendly with a French policeman. He told Rachel, the sixteen-year-old daughter, what was going to happen. "Don’t go home for the next two nights. After that it will be safe. I know you understand, but your parents might not. They’re too trusting of a world that no longer exists."

Rachel convinced her parents they were in danger. Even though it made no sense to them, for they had no enemies, they huddled in the tiny shoe shop for the next two nights: father and mother, Rachel, and little brother Stanislaw.

They returned home on the third day, assuming the danger was gone, arriving at their apartment after dark. Many in the building had been taken; some doors hung on broken hinges. Others, like the Abzacs, had notices posted at their residence, ordering them to police headquarters. Some apartments were spared completely.

Rachel glanced up and down the corridor, dimly lit, the paint fading. When convinced

that no one was looking, she tore down the notice and led her family into their flat.

Just as they entered, she saw the landlady exit the stairwell. A middle-aged woman more interested in her tenants’ lives than her own, she stood at the far end of the hallway, watching.

Their apartment was undisturbed. After ensuring their belongings were safe, mother and father prepared Stanislaw for bed, and they followed soon after. Rachel went to her room but remained awake. She kept thinking of the landlady’s face.

The footsteps were sharp and distinct, strides long and measured. Boots pounded the hardwood floors. They came to a sudden halt and voices could be heard in the corridor.

Rachel’s eyes opened and she bolted upright. She could see the night through her bedroom window. The hands on the clock pointed to one a.m.

She jumped from bed and leaned against the wall, placing her ear against the cracked plaster where the wallpaper had peeled away. She heard the landlady talking, providing locations of different apartments, the Abzacs’ flat among them. Then they went across the hall and knocked loudly on a neighboring door.

Rachel knew she had to act quickly. She went to the adjacent bed and shook Stanislaw. He opened his eyes, sleepy and confused.

"Stanislaw, hurry! You have to get dressed."

She ran to the next bedroom and awakened her parents. Her father sat up, placing wire-rimmed spectacles on his nose.

"What’s wrong?" he asked, speaking in Polish.

"The police are outside," Rachel said, breathless. "Get dressed. We have to hide. They’re coming for us. And any other Jews that escaped."

She went to her room and dressed hastily. Then she helped her brother.

"Rachel, can’t we try to reason with them?" her mother asked as she buttoned her dress.

Her parents clung to the old ways, searching for Poland in Paris. A new world was hard for them to comprehend. A world controlled by a hostile enemy was even harder.

"It might be a misunderstanding," her father said, hoping to avoid a confrontation. He pulled his black suspenders over his shoulders.

There was a knock at the front door, the taps insistent, loud and rhythmic.

They froze, fear masking their faces as anxious glances passed between them. The parents looked to Rachel, confused and afraid.

"What should we do?" the mother hissed.

The knock came again, louder.

"Wake up!" a voice called.

Rachel tried to stay calm. She knew their lives depended on it. She looked at the trunk beside her parent’s bed, and to the wardrobe against a far wall.

"Open the door!" the policeman called.

"We have to hide," Rachel said, her eyes wide.

She frantically surveyed the tiny apartment. She looked at the closets, the walls, and then the windows.

"We can’t," her father whispered. "It’s too late."

"We’re breaking down the door!" came the harsh warning.

Rachel took Stanislaw by the hand. She ran to the window in her parent’s bedroom. She opened it, her hands shaking, and motioned to her father.

"You go first."

"Rachel, we’re on the sixth floor! Are you mad?"

"On the ledge," she said. "Hurry."

Her father looked at her with amazement, surprised by her courage. But he obeyed, and climbed out the window.

"Mother, you’re next," she whispered. "And then Stanislaw."

The butt of the rifle crashed against the door. Once, twice, and then the jamb splintered and the door flew open.

Rachel was scrambling through the window when they barged in. A policeman searched the parlor. A second went to her bedroom. She eased the window down, trying to make no noise.

The wall faced a narrow alley, an adjacent building two meters away. Rachel stared at the limestone wall, her heart racing. Stanislaw was weeping.

The ledge was twenty centimeters wide. Rachel looked down. It made her dizzy, her stomach lurching. A German soldier, dwarf-like from such a height, patrolled the alley. If he looked up, he would see them.

Rachel stared straight ahead and consoled her brother, holding his hand. Her father held her mother, trying to comfort her.

She looked down again. The German was directly below, pacing, a machine gun slung over his shoulder. She looked closer, leaning forward, and lost her balance.

She shrieked, not loudly, but the night was so still it echoed. She struggled, almost falling. Her shoe slipped from her foot, fluttering downward, falling into a pile of rubbish.

The soldier turned, startled by the noise, but not sure where it came from. He moved the gun from his shoulder, poking the barrel into the trash.

Rachel grabbed the window molding, clinging to life, her knuckles white. She teetered on the ledge, her upper body swaying to and fro.

Her mother extended her arm. Stanislaw pulled her towards him. Rachel regained her balance and stayed flat against the wall, frightened and breathing heavily.

In the alley below the soldier left the rubbish pile and walked towards the road. A bus was parked on the street. Jews were being led to it. Those like the Abzacs, who thought they had escaped. Young and innocent, old and wise, parents and children, all stood in line. They carried small suitcases and parcels filled with their prized possessions.

The apartment search continued. Two policemen came into the main bedroom. The wardrobe doors flung open. The lid to the trunk was thrown to the floor.

Rachel saw a reflection by the window, blocking the light. She tensed. The policeman was centimeters away. She inched from the window. She could see the brim of his hat pressed against the glass as he peered out. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

What inspires you to write?
The common theme in my novels are ordinary people compelled to do extraordinary things, driven by events or tumultuous times. My first three books are about WWII, but not generals or admirals or politicians, but a reporter, a violinist, a bookstore owner. They become heroes, just as ordinary people became heroes during the war.

How did you get the idea for the book?
When I started When Darkness Comes, I wanted to write about a man who gave up everything to save others – his wealth, his reputation, his family, his future – and I created Julian Junot. But often when a novel is conceived, and other characters developed, their stories become just as intriguing.

What inspired you to create the main characters?
While researching the book, I created Paul, Claire, and Rachel from fragments of sentences I found in historical records. Each described tragedies endured by those in the French Resistance – a man who lost his wife and daughter, a young woman killed by the Germans, a teenage Jew who defied the Nazis. I thought they deserved more than a few words in a forgotten WWII journal and felt compelled to tell the stories, even if fueled by my imagination.

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