“Delicious,” Papa pronounced. He tipped the bread crumbs from his napkin into his soup plate and took one last bite so as not to waste anything.

“We have dessert tonight. Another gift from monsieur le maire.” Maman lifted the pottery dome of the butter dish to reveal not butter, but—

“Chocolate!” Lisette said. “Maman, is that chocolate?”

Her mother nodded.

Papa cut the dark, glossy piece into three portions. “Bon appétit, my loves,” he said.

Lisette bit into hers, closing her eyes to savor the delicious rush. Chocolate! Such a thing was unheard of in these times. She felt almost dizzy with the flavor of it.

“He wants to court you,” said Papa. “He asked my permission.”

Lisette’s eyes flew open. “What? Who?”

“Monsieur Palomar would like to court you,” Papa repeated. “Your mother and I have given our approval.”

The chocolate taste turned to thick bitterness in her mouth. “This is absurd,” she said. “Palomar is far too old for me. I don’t know him at all, nor do I wish to.”

“He has been exceedingly good to our family,” Maman said.

“And I do appreciate that. But I already have a boyfriend—Jean-Luc d’Estérel.”

“That’s a girlhood flirtation,” said Maman. “You’re a young woman now. And besides, he’s Jewish.”

“So is Mussolini’s mistress.”

“How did you hear that?”

“I hear things. I know things.”

“Then you should hear that the Germans are coming. They’ll oust the Italians and round up the Jews. If Jean-Luc knows what’s good for him, he’ll make himself scarce.”

“His mother is ill,” Lisette said. “He can’t leave her. And Marshal Graziani has ordered Jean-Luc to work for him, because he’s the only one in Bellerive who has the expertise to operate the railroad switches and river locks.” She knew Jean-Luc hated having to provide a service for the occupying military force. “I want nothing to do with Didier Palomar,” she concluded, feeling ill as she eyed the remaining pieces of chocolate on the plate.

Maman took hold of both her hands. “There is no more money for rent. We have to leave the house by the end of the month.”

“What? When did you learn this?” Lisette looked from one parent to the other. Her father sat in stoic silence, his expression stony.

“There was a notice a few weeks ago.”

“Then I shall find a way to get some money,” Lisette said, her heart thumping with desperation. “I can speak, read, and write English. I can cook and clean and sew. Surely I could find a position in Aix or Marseille.”

“Don’t even think of it. Horrible things happen to young girls who go to the city.”

“More horrible than being courted by a man I don’t know?” Lisette bolted from the table and charged out the door, ignoring the sound of the curfew bells. She ran until a sharp pain pinched her side. She had to tell Jean-Luc what was planned. Together, they would figure out what to do.

Breathless and clutching her side, she reached his tiny apartment above a cobbler shop and burst in on him. He was alone, bent over something on the table. He nearly fell off his stool in surprise. “Lisette,” he said, jumping to his feet. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I had to see you,” she said. “My parents want me to marry Didier Palomar.”

“The mayor?”

“He’s been supplying us with food. I assumed it was a gesture of kindness, but all he really wanted was to win my father’s approval. Now we’re being put out of our home because there’s no money. If I refuse Palomar, we’ll be begging in the street.”

“Slow down,” Jean-Luc said, clutching her upper arms and staring into her face. “Lisette, don’t panic.”

“I can’t help it. We have only until the end of the month.” She took a deep breath, reminding herself that hysterics would solve nothing. “I’m sorry,” she added, looking around the tiny apartment. “How is your mother?”

“She’s resting.” He indicated the next room with a nod. Then he lowered his voice. “The doctor said there’s nothing more to be done except to keep her comfortable.”

Suddenly this made her troubles slink away into a back corner of her mind. “Jean-Luc, I’m so sorry. How can I help?”

“By being you. By being here.” He touched her cheek. He had a very gentle touch.

Jean-Luc was the first boy—the only boy—she had ever kissed. Someday, she might even fall in love with him, the way people fell in love in the movies, with a blinding éclat of passion.

She heard a faint crackling sound, like a fire. Then she looked at the table where he’d been sitting, and for the first time noticed a large case filled with a jumble of tubes, knobs, and switches. It was a homemade radio.

She looked up at Jean-Luc, feeling all the color drain from her face. “My God. You’re working for the partisans.”

Lisette heard the churr of a nightjar, and then the sound she’d been straining to hear—a low whistle. She slipped out of bed and dressed quickly in a plain blouse and smock, then padded barefoot to the door. She paused, listening for her parents—the soft whistle of Papa’s almost-snore, a light sigh from Maman.

Then she stepped outside. The street was dark, the quiet stirred by the nightjar and the burble of the river flowing under the old stone bridge. The scent of magnolia, cypress, and plane trees rode the breeze. Blackout regulations prohibited even the slightest leak of light from a streetlamp or window, so she stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. She could make out the bulky shadow of the church at the top of the village, and the craggy profile of the bridge close by. Picking up her market basket and boots, she crossed the bridge.

“Over here,” came a whisper. Jean-Luc d’Estérel waited with his bicycle next to the bridge tower. “Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

He reached for her, planting a firm kiss on her lips. Her heart sped up as she savored the taste and smell of him.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

“I’m sure. I only wish you had let me help long ago.” She put on her boots.

“This work is dangerous, Lisette, make no mistake. A partisan was taken last week in Marseille, and Louis said he was tortured in ways I don’t even want to describe to you. By the French.”

Jean-Luc’s friend Louis Picoche seemed to know everything. He relied on a small, tight-knit group who knew how to keep a secret.

“Those who side with the Vichy government and Pétain are not French,” she hissed, feeling the heat of contempt. “We won’t get caught. We’re in the middle of nowhere, far from the big city.”

They walked to the edge of town, speaking in whispers while Jean-Luc wheeled the bicycle, taking care not to let it rattle over the cobblestones. Once they reached the roadway leading to the coast, they got on, Lisette taking the seat while Jean-Luc pedaled. Clutching him around the waist, she felt utterly exhilarated by the rush of air in her face and the feel of his muscular body beneath her hands. The darkness only added to the excitement. Finally, after simmering with resentment against the occupying soldiers, she had a chance to do something.

They met Louis in a broad, empty field on the high ground a few hundred meters from massive granite calanques jutting out into the sea. When she was small, Lisette and her brothers would come here after chores on hot summer days to enjoy the sandy beaches tucked between the towering cliffs. Papa had taught her to swim in the azure water.

After the accident, Lisette had become the teacher. Her father had plunged into a terrible melancholy, alternately furious and despairing over what he called his useless body. She had organized Papa’s friends to help. They had loaded him into a cart, brought him to the beach, and carried him into the water. Lisette had held his hands while he floated, encouraging him to swim. Seeing him rediscover the pleasure of weightlessness in the water had filled her with joy, and their outings to the beach became a regular occurrence. Maman would bring a baguette and something from the garden for a picnic, and sometimes for a few hours, they forgot what had happened to the boys, they forgot Papa’s accident, and they forgot that foreign troops occupied their town. Lisette had taken some pictures of her parents at the beach as mementos.