“How kind of you,” he said, and held open the door.

“Maman, Papa, we have a guest,” she said, seeing them in the tiny garden behind the house, an oasis her father had created with a stone enclosure and a small pond. “It is Monsieur Palomar.”

The mayor strode out to the garden, taking her father’s hand and then her mother’s.

“Please, sit down,” said her father.

“I’ll bring something to drink,” her mother said.

“You’re very gracious, but I don’t need anything,” said Monsieur Palomar. “I simply wanted to see the young lady safely home.”

Lisette stood in the dim interior of the house, taking the vegetables from her basket. She stashed the camera under the root bin. These days, there was no safe place. Every home was vulnerable, not just to soldiers being billeted there, but also to air raids.

“You must allow us to serve you an aperitif,” her mother insisted. “I know it’s been forbidden by the central authority, but I make my own vin maison, a lovely ratafia of peaches and herbs.”

Monsieur Palomar paused, then gave a nod of the head. “Of course, then. I can see where your daughter gets her kind nature.”

Maman scurried into the kitchen as the two men talked. “Take out the good pitcher, Lisette,” said Maman. “Make sure there’s not a spot on it.”

While Lisette inspected the pitcher, Maman took the herb-infused wine from the icebox. Her brow knit in a frown, and Lisette knew she was yearning to set a better table for the mayor. But the taste of butter, milk, cheese, and meat was but a distant memory to the Galli family. Maman cut a few slices from the baguette and scooped a ladle of olives from their precious, dwindling supply. Olives were Papa’s favorite. Maman must have caught Lisette’s expression. “He is a very important man, Palomar is. He knows how to deal with the Italians. I’ve heard his farm still has its dairy cows and pigs.”

Local farms were ordered to billet and feed soldiers. Strict rationing rules were in place, and shortages were rampant. Military activity had destroyed the usual transport modes by sea, river barge, and railroads. Most of the labor force had gone to war or into hiding, so there were not enough workers to tend the crops, nor was there fuel to power the farm equipment. Even here in the countryside, supplementing food supplies by game hunting, foraging, and growing local produce was regulated, which actually meant the whole yield had to be handed over and redistributed by the authorities. Even the hour of aperitif had been forbidden, although in private homes, the rules were hard to enforce.

Lisette took down the thick, stubby aperitif glasses. On the inside of the cupboard door were the photos she had taken of her brothers before they went off to fight. The pictures stayed hidden, as villagers had been cautioned against overt displays of patriotism. The soldiers were paranoid, suspecting everyone of being maquisards, bush fighters of the Maquis, whose guerrilla tactics and secret communication network made them a fearsome enemy.

She cut a glance at Monsieur Palomar. Framed by the open cottage window, he looked relaxed and confident, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to talk to Papa.

“Palomar is very handsome, eh?” Maman remarked.

Lisette flushed. “If you say so. For an older man.”

“He’s not so very old, perhaps thirty,” Maman said. “And a widower, so young.”

“His wife died?”

“She did, just last year. Madame Picoche said she drowned in the Calanques. The swimming is so hazardous there. Let us be especially kind to Monsieur Palomar.”

Picking up the serving tray, Lisette followed her mother out to the garden.

“Voilà,” said her father with a genial smile. “A glass to welcome the evening.”

Maman poured, and they touched each other’s glasses in salut. Lisette had always thought there was something magical about those rare, sun-gilt in-between moments just as day slipped into twilight. Before her father’s accident, it marked his transition from a day of labor to the relaxation of evening. He would shuck his ouvrier’s trousers and wash up at the outdoor basin, singing “Dis-moi, Janette” or some other old song. When she and her brothers were small, Maman gave them lemonade, and the family would sit together, enjoying the special time as they reconnected with Papa.

She was proud to see her father now, keeping his dignity despite all he had lost—his sons, his work, the use of his legs—as he conversed with the mayor of the town. They talked of the things that weighed on everyone’s minds these days—the invasion of the Italians, the war with Germany in the north, the shortages, the air raids.

Lisette sipped her vin maison slowly, savoring the herbal taste. She didn’t eat any of the olives, not wanting to hasten the dwindling of the supply. Monsieur Palomar seemed cordial enough, but there was something about him. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Then he caught her staring, offered a genial smile and a tip of his glass, and she chided herself. This was the man who had shielded her from the foreign soldiers, after all.

“How is it,” her father asked, “that you’ve managed so well through all this?”

“Albert,” said Maman. “He is a guest. Don’t be rude.”

“No rudeness is meant,” Papa clarified.

“And none taken,” said Monsieur Palomar. “I am committed to protecting our village. Sometimes, this means facing terrible choices. Capitulate and avoid bloodshed, or resist and invite bloodshed. I have no taste for capitulation, but what choice do we have? Our national pride might be wounded, but it does not bleed like our citizens do.”

“We are lucky to have a mayor who understands this,” said Maman.

The light deepened, and the curfew bells sounded. “I must be going. My sister Rotrude will scold me if I’m late to supper.” He stood, and his face seemed haunted by sadness. “Her husband died in the fighting only a month after I lost my wife, and so she and her little daughter have come back to Sauveterre. It would be a quiet, lonely place but for the Italians billeted there.”

“There are soldiers under your roof?”

He nodded. “I had no choice. Rotrude complains of their manners, and they drink our wine as if it’s water. All my late wife’s grenache is gone. I used to take comfort in drinking the wine she made.”

“We’re very sorry for your loss,” said Papa.

“And I for yours. Alas, my wife never gave me children, so I can only imagine the pain of losing your sons.” He squared his shoulders and looked at Lisette, his gaze scanning her from head to toe. “And there, I’ve made us all thoroughly maudlin. Let us look ahead to better times, eh?”

“More butter from Monsieur Palomar?” Lisette asked, taking her place at the supper table. For the past year, he’d been supplying them with rare treats of butter, cheese, bacon, coffee, and wine, supplementing the meager portions allowed by the rationing system. The mayor and Papa had become friends, and Palomar often said he would help the family if they ever needed anything.

“He’s been very generous,” Maman said, serving each of them a dish of soup and a cut of bread topped with the fresh butter.

Papa said a quick bénédicité, and then they raised their glasses. There was only water to drink, as the rationed wine was both scarce and foul. The shortages grew worse by the week. People were eating the workhorses they couldn’t afford to feed. Soups and stews made of foraged foods failed to fill bellies. If a fisherman had a good catch, the bounty was requisitioned and fed to the soldiers rather than distributed to the populace.

Lisette forced herself to eat slowly, even though hunger gnawed at her belly. It was frightening to see her parents’ sunken cheeks and thinning hair. Dr. Toselli, so jovial and robust when she had first started working for him, was sickly, his vision worse than ever. She had stopped accepting payment for her services, though she still visited him every day to keep house, to sit and talk, to read with him. She insisted that the English lessons were payment enough.

In addition to the lessons, he continued to school her in the art of the darkroom, and her obsession with photography grew. She helped Toselli with his penicillin production as well, even though he cautioned her about what would happen if she got caught. She didn’t care. If her efforts supported the war against Germany and Italy, she would take the risk. She had even persuaded her mother to cultivate cantaloupes in the garden, though she didn’t say why—they were the best for growing the mold that would yield the antibiotic.