She had always been a good student in school, yet under his tutelage, she’d learned things far beyond the topics offered by the nuns at the local school. Often he told her to curtail her cleaning and gardening duties in order to read more. They both loved reading of all sorts—novels and histories, classic tales of heroes and villains, poetry and current journals about the state of the world in the midst of the terrible things that were happening all around them. Although Bellerive had surrendered peacefully when the Italian army marched over the bridge and took up occupation in the mairie and the courthouse, these were worrisome times. The real news was found in the underground journals distributed mysteriously throughout the region, giving patriots the awful truth: the Nazis had overrun Paris. There were arrests, roundups, and deportations of Jews and foreigners, and according to Dr. Toselli, the only thing keeping the Nazis at bay in the Var was the presence of the Italians.

“It is a sad thing, choosing one conqueror over another,” he told her. “Let’s not read the news today. Everything is censored, anyway. I would prefer to check in with Mr. Holmes.”

Toselli had a special project with Lisette, sharing with her his most favorite treat—a series of novels about Sherlock Holmes, a brilliant English detective who solved mysterious crimes. The books were in English. When they first started reading A Study in Scarlet, she’d struggled mightily with the foreign words and tortured pronunciation, but Toselli was incredibly patient and encouraging. He delighted in her swift improvement. They were now reading the third volume in the series, a story called The Hound of the Baskervilles.

She read a scene in which Sherlock Holmes stood in the hallway of a mansion, studying the ancestors of the Baskervilles, noting the family resemblance and wondering about a newly arrived cousin.

“Does the family resemblance truly exist,” she asked, when she finished reading, “or do people see what they want to see?”

Monsieur smiled at her. “That is part of the puzzle, eh? It is no mystery where you came from. You are as fair and flaxen-haired as your dear mother. Who is probably getting your supper at home. You should go.”

She placed the book on the table next to his magnifying glass. He was still able to see print with a powerful lamp and glass, and he might want to read on later. Then she bade him good-bye, gathered up her things, and stepped out into the sun-flooded street.

Before walking to her parents’ tiny cottage at the south end of the town by the bridge, she had one more errand. It was Saturday, and she had to stop at the village church to make her weekly confession.

The church was dim and cool inside. The ancient stone floor and walls amplified the sound of her footfalls as she walked up a side aisle toward the wooden confessional booth with its carved gargoyles and griffin vultures. A few nuns and old people were present, some seated on prayer chairs, others kneeling in front of the main altar, heads bent in contemplation. She approached the confessional, leaning down to see if it was occupied.

It was empty, so she slipped behind the curtain and knelt down, making the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”

She waited for Father Rinaldo to respond, her mind wandering. It must be so tedious for the priest, listening to her petty offenses. She was simply not interesting enough to have anything of substance to confess. And although it was probably a sin in and of itself, she knew that if she ever did anything interesting enough to warrant a confession, she wouldn’t admit it.

Maybe she should tell him how guilty she felt that she couldn’t be more helpful to her parents. Her father, an expert stonecutter, had suffered a grievous accident a year before. Now he was confined to a wheelchair, and the family depended on the charity of neighbors and the Church to sustain them. Sometimes she heard anxious whispers in the night. They would soon be put out of their cottage because they couldn’t pay their taxes. Her mother feared they would be reduced to begging—or worse. The threat of prison hung over their heads. There was talk of going to a charity house in Marseille, a horrifying prospect to her once-proud father.

Perhaps she should confess a crime of the heart. She had let Jean-Luc d’Estérel kiss her, several times, and she was probably going to fall in love with him. He was incredibly handsome, with large dark eyes fringed by thick lashes, a strong jaw, and a graceful aquiline nose. Jean-Luc was Jewish, which meant the Church would probably deem their romance sinful.

“Monseigneur?” she whispered after a few minutes had passed.

Still no response from the priest. A moment later, she heard a gentle snore.

Lisette sighed. “Very well, then. My sins are terribly boring.” She whispered the Act of Contrition in Latin, then slipped out of the confessional. No penance today.

Carrying her basket, she left the church and wound down through the narrow alleyways of the village. She and her parents had a cottage by the bridge that spanned the river. Their next-door neighbor used to be in charge of the sluices that controlled the flow of water, but he had been evicted by the invading soldiers, because the bridge was a major strategic point. Now sandbags formed a makeshift embankment around the structure to protect it in the event of a bombing. Only a year ago, a bombing had been the last thing on her mind. The bridge was simply a way to get from one side of the river to the other. Now it was a target for bombs, a prize to be fought over by opposing forces.

She made the mistake of taking a shortcut past the Bar Zinc, a gathering place for soldiers. Not so long ago, her village had been a safe place, filled with friendly faces and abundant food and wine from the surrounding farms and vineyards. These days, Bellerive seethed with whispered rumors, black-market dealings, armed foreigners roaming the streets. A group of them was gathered at a sidewalk table, and inevitably, they spotted her. A babble of Italian catcalls erupted.

She pretended not to hear the harsh voices and kissing sounds, but one of them blocked her way. “Where are you going, pretty girl?” he asked in broken French. “What are you carrying in your basket?”

The camera. She clutched it closer to her body, hoping the leeks and greens from Dr. Toselli’s garden concealed the precious box.

“Please,” she said quietly. “It’s just a few discarded vegetables for my parents.”

“Very well, then, you must join us for a glass of wine.” The soldier was swarthy and thick-limbed, his drab uniform reeking of sweat. He placed his hand on her arm.

She yanked it away as if burned, trying not to panic. “Do not touch me. Monsieur,” she added.

“We are here for your protection. This is no way to show your gratitude.” He took her arm again.

She cast a wild look around, hoping the barman or a passerby would help. “Leave me alone,” she said loudly.

“What is this?” asked a smooth, French voice.

She whipped around to see Didier Palomar, the town mayor. Monsieur Palomar owned a fine mas called Sauveterre, his ancient familial manor surrounded by fields, vineyards, meadows, and creeks that flowed down to the sea. At Sunday Mass he was a haughty presence in fine clothes, his blond hair and steely gray eyes commanding attention. But he was French, and held a position of authority, a far more trustworthy ally than the hard-drinking foreign soldiers.

“Monsieur le maire, I am simply trying to make my way home to my parents. I have no wish to cause trouble.”

“Very well, then, I shall accompany you myself.” He said something to the soldiers in Italian. A couple of them made rude gestures, but they returned to their drinking.

“You are Albert Galli’s girl, no?” Didier asked as they walked down a steeply winding street.

“Yes, sir.” She was shaken by the encounter. Her voice sounded thin, and her wobbly legs barely supported her.

Monsieur Palomar placed his hand under her elbow. “Your name is Lisette.”

She wondered how he knew. “Yes, sir,” she said again.

“You’ve grown to be a lovely young lady. Best you steer clear of the soldiers.”

“I will,” she said, though she felt a deep resentment. What right had they to move into this peaceful village, which had committed no offense except to be in the path of Hitler and Mussolini’s ambitions?

They reached the cottage, and she hesitated at the doorway, feeling a struggle between pride and manners. She was a Galli; manners won. “Would you like to come in for an aperitif?” she asked.