1942, evening

Leo.

I sat at my desk, holding a piece of paper in my hands.

My Dearest Leo,

How are you faring? Matteo and I have managed to safely reach Paris. We are both in good health and have found shelter at my residence on rue Victor Hugo. However, I've come to realise that I may have made a grave mistake.

Paris is in the occupied zone, and crossing into the unoccupied area seems to be an insurmountable challenge. I am currently contemplating a plan to take Matteo across the border into Switzerland, but it will require time and careful execution. Recently, we had a frightening encounter. While strolling near Les Champs Elysées, we were accosted by a Gendarme. He eyed us suspiciously, as if we were conspirators concealing some illicit truth. And in a way, we were hiding something. I managed to procure a forged French passport for Matteo through an acquaintance from Marseille. For now, he goes by the name Matteo Clémence. Our intention was to avoid arousing suspicion about his German heritage, despite his slight accent.

"Monsieur et Mademoiselle , unaccompanied minors wandering the streets, is it?" he questioned us. I was gripped by fear; facing a Gendarme can be quite serious.

"We're in 6ème, sir," I responded, swallowing my anxiety, beads of sweat forming on my forehead.

"And where are your parents?"

"They're visiting distant relatives near Le Chambon Sur Lignon," I fabricated, my voice trembling. Matteo held my arm firmly, preventing me from collapsing in terror.