“I’ll come back tomorrow,” Lisette promised.

As she carried her empty bushel basket outside, a small boy ran up to her and briefly put his skinny arms around her waist. “Thank you for the apples,” he said, looking up at her with shining eyes. “They’re my favorite.”

She smiled down at him, gently brushing the hair from his face. His touch melted her heart, reminding her that there was one issue on which she and Palomar agreed—they wanted to have a baby. Sometimes she thought it was foolish to want to bring a new life into a world so filled with danger and uncertainty, but to give up the dream of a family would be to give up hope.

Her heart felt lighter as she rode home on her bicycle. At the edge of town, there was a rise in the road, and then an unpaved dirt track leading to the mas—the home she now shared with her parents, Didier, Rotrude, and little Petra, and a small household staff. A half dozen soldiers were billeted in a far wing of the house, but for the most part, they kept to themselves as they went about their duties.

Sauveterre was a beautiful, ancient farm, particularly in the autumn. The ocher-colored walls held a golden glow from the late-afternoon light, and shadows lay long across the fields. No wonder painters like Cézanne and Van Gogh, Chagall and Deyrolle spent so much time in the region, capturing the brilliant, changing colors and rugged landscape.

At several spots along the way, Lisette stopped and dismounted, leaning her bike against the hedgerow and removing her camera from the wicker basket on the front of her bike. Taking pictures with Toselli’s marvelous camera fulfilled her in ways she couldn’t describe. It was a refuge of sorts, when she forgot everything except the images she saw through the viewfinder or brought to life under the enlarger in the darkroom. She lost herself in her pictures of lavender fields, dry stone ruins, close-ups of wild thyme, action shots such as an eruption of butterflies or children at play. At first, Didier had frowned on her pastime, but when she made a flattering portrait of him and hand-colored it for inclusion in the town archives, he relented. Lisette was grateful for this, because her darkroom yielded something other than photographs of local folk and landscapes. She was adept at producing pictures for counterfeit identity cards used by the partisans.

She never worried that Didier would find out. Her husband was not a complicated man. He was made up of greed and vanity, and a certain surface charm that passed for kindness. He spent his days strutting about town, looking after municipal affairs. Since the occupation, those affairs were in the hands of the marshal, but Palomar enjoyed the illusion of control, flaunting his family money and political influence, and taking credit for keeping the peace.

She took two pictures—one of the wind-sculpted oak tree that seemed to point the way along the road to Sauveterre and another of the just-bundled sheaves of grain lined up in neat rows, ready to be stored in the barn or bories.

Working carefully, she put the camera away and rode home, giving Rotrude a wave of the hand as she wheeled the bike into the shed. Rotrude eyed the empty bushel basket roped behind the bike, but she didn’t say anything. Like Lisette, she was in favor of preserving as much of the harvest as possible without attracting attention.

A twist of smoke and the sound of pounding metal indicated that Papa was working at the forge today. He did whatever he was able to do from his wheelchair, helping around the farm, from sharpening knives and scissors to stemming grapes to repairing tools. He seemed grateful to have a purpose.

Lisette washed up at the outdoor well, savoring the sweet, cold water, clean from the pump. In the kitchen, her mother was chatting with Muriel, the housemaid, and grinding grain in the mill for tomorrow’s bread. Maman loved the big sunny kitchen with its shiny copper pots, floors and surfaces of Provençal tile. Seeing her mother safe and content made Lisette happy. Even now, a year after leaving the humble cottage in town, it felt like a small miracle to get up in the morning and serve her parents milk, still warm from the cow, or to make them an omelet of fresh eggs.

“How can I help?” she asked, tying on an apron.

“Muriel caught two fish today,” Petra said, coming into the kitchen. “I don’t like fish.”

“There’s rabbit, too,” Rotrude said. “Muriel’s a good shot.” Although it was strictly forbidden to possess a firearm, the authorities tacitly permitted hunting pieces.

Petra climbed up to the table and set down a handful of wildflowers. “Lisette, will you help me make a crown?”

Lisette smiled. “Sure. Watch: you make a loop with the stem, and then put the next stem through the loop, like so.” The spicy scent of lavender filled the air.

“We shouldn’t waste the wild lavender,” Rotrude scolded. “It’s needed to make medicine for the soldiers.”

Petra stared at the flowers on the table. “The medicine didn’t help my papa, did it?” Like Lisette’s brother, Petra’s father had been killed in the first wave of fighting.

Rotrude’s breath caught. “No, but he would want us to be resourceful, eh?”

“Well. These flowers are already picked, so we mustn’t let them go to waste,” Lisette said brightly, garnering a sweet smile from her niece.

That night at supper, Didier made a grave announcement. “A message came in over the wire at the mairie. The Allies have invaded French North Africa.”

“The Germans will respond,” Papa said.

“Yes.” Didier’s expression was somber. “For us, it means the Italians are out. The Germans will take over the occupation. That is a certainty.”

As bad as it was to be under the thumb of the Italians, everyone knew the Germans would be a hundred times worse.

“Germans killed my father,” Petra said quietly, touching her crown of wilting flowers.

“When, Didier?” asked Rotrude, her eyes large and round.

“Soon. We must find a way to make the best of it,” said Didier.

Lisette nudged Dr. Toselli with her arm so he could take hold as they walked away from the town meeting. It was a miserable February day, the mistral wind skirling across the landscape with a vengeance. The whole village and the manor houses surrounding it had been oriented to shield them from the ubiquitous north wind, but on some days, even the south-facing stone walls were not protection enough.

During the town meeting, the German authorities had been formally installed as overlords of Bellerive. Now the occupied village simmered with rumors. They would round up the Jews and punish anyone who tried to resist them. They would seize property and crops for no reason and with no legitimate authority. In some towns, the Nazis turned synagogues into brothels to serve the troops. Bellerive had no synagogue, but it was whispered that the soldiers were on the prowl for women.

Any person who offended the German occupiers paid a horrific price. The mere ownership of a firearm—even an ancient, rusty shotgun in a shed—brought a death penalty. The Germans had slaughtered entire villages as reprisals for guerrilla actions.

“You should go back to Sauveterre with your family,” the old man said. “I can find my way on my own.”

“I told Palomar I was going to walk you to your house,” Lisette told her friend.

“I have d’Artagnan to guide me.” He held the leash of his beautiful guide dog loosely in his free hand. A friend who had used Toselli’s veterinary services years before had generously donated the trained dog.

“D’Artagnan doesn’t mind me,” Lisette said. “Besides, I want to stop and see Jean-Luc to offer my condolences. He was so very devoted to his mother.”

Toselli nodded. “Then we should go together, if that’s all right.”

“Of course. Are you sure you’re warm enough?”

“I am tougher than I look, Madame,” he said with grave formality, coaxing a rare smile from her as they made their way to Jean-Luc’s house.

Jean-Luc greeted them with brief kisses. “I’m going to be conscripted,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“I’ve been called by the STO—the Service du Travail Obligatoire. Forced labor for Germany.” He spat on the ground. “They’ll never take me.”

“Can you avoid it?”