She loved sitting and talking with Hank. He told her about distant Vermont, which sounded to her like a magical kingdom—thick forests of maple trees that gave up their sap at the end of winter, to be boiled into delicious maple syrup, which she longed to taste. He spoke lovingly of his family—two sisters, grandparents, and even great-grandparents. Two of them had passed the venerable age of one hundred.

She came to him one day to find him sitting up in the hut. Not only that, he was clean and shaven, and wearing an old linen shirt and dungarees she’d given him.

“What did you do?” she whispered, her gaze devouring his handsome face.

“I couldn’t stand myself any longer. I had to get cleaned up.”

“You went to the stream.” She examined his bad leg. Yesterday’s wound dressing was still in place, and his ankle was still bound. “My God, did you walk?”

“Crawled like a baby,” he said. “Don’t worry, it was in the dead of night, and I covered my tracks. When there’s enough light to see, I’ve been reading,” he said. “Thanks for the book. I don’t have anything to give you, but . . . here . . .” He handed her a Mass card with the head of Christ and a prayer on the back. “The USO gives these out to all the soldiers. It’s not much.” He wrote You’re my angel on the back. “A keepsake.”

She slipped it into her pocket without taking her eyes off his clean-shaven face.

“Is it bad?” he asked, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I reckon I missed some spots.”

“It’s not bad,” she said. “You look so much younger now. How old are you, Hank?”

He hesitated, then said, “Almost eighteen.”

“So young!” She was not much older, but being married to Didier made her feel ancient.

“I had to get special permission to enlist,” he said, “but it wasn’t a problem. They needed every man they could get for the big push to end the war.”

She nodded. “We are not allowed to have radios, but we hear rumors and reports.” She didn’t mention Toselli’s radio, which he kept hidden from the Nazis. “But no one has heard how this will end.”

He hesitated, and in that hesitation, she read what he would not say. He had been sent here to scout the terrain. Surely it must mean something was in the works.

“Hank?”

“I was only given enough information to carry out my mission. One thing I know, because it’s no secret, is the mobilization is huge. A million Allied troops is what I heard. Everybody knows Germany’s been planning to invade England and now they have to fight the war on two fronts. They’re outmanned and outgunned.”

“Not in Bellerive. Not anywhere in this region. The Germans are in complete control. They have taken over everything, and they are aided by French traitors.” She felt a wave of contempt for her husband. “That is why you’re here,” she said, knowing it was true even before he answered. “There is going to be an invasion in the south.” The idea touched her with fire. “How can I help?”

“What? Lisette, this is dangerous business.”

“Do you think I don’t know that? My God, I have lived in the shadow of danger for years.” She bit her lip to avoid saying more about her situation at home. “I am not afraid of danger.” She hesitated. “I have been helping, in my way.”

She had accustomed herself to trusting no one, but Hank was different. Now she opened her straw basket and took out the film rolls she had been shooting. “The highest point in the village is the church tower,” she said. “From the very top, one can see for many kilometers in every direction. On a clear day, it’s possible to see the mountains to the east. I was taking photographs from the church the day I found you.”

“Holy moly,” he said.

“I will never know what became of my pictures. It’s safer that way. If . . . when you rejoin your group, you can take the film with you.”

Comprehension dawned, along with a smile, on his face. “You’re incredible, Lisette.”

“I cannot fight for France like a soldier, but I can fight for France,” she said.

Sixteen

Hank thought about Lisette all the time. He could be found out and taken prisoner, tortured or killed, yet he only thought about her. He lived for her visits. She was like a sprite from the woods, elusive and secretive, coming and going at random. He tried to imagine her life beyond the woods and the stream and the overgrown vineyard.

He asked her what she did with the rest of her day, but her answers were vague. She told him that she lived on a working farm, which she called a mas, a self-sustaining property where they produced everything they needed. With the Germans in charge, they were required to surrender all their produce, but they managed better than those who suffered from the punishing rations endured by city dwellers. The place was called Sauveterre, which she told him meant “Safe Haven.” She said this with a twist of irony, because nothing was safe anymore.

When she wasn’t with him, he went over and over their conversations in his head and practiced the French phrases she taught him. He was charmed by her quirky English, which she had learned from the novels of Arthur Conan Doyle. It made her sound slightly old-fashioned and extra smart.

Every once in a while, he managed to shift his thoughts from Lisette to the mission. Had the Brits finally agreed to the plan? Had his unit provided good intel? Were they still looking for him? Had they given him up for dead? Lost? Deserted? Captured? He could not think of a way to contact his unit without putting Lisette in harm’s way. He knew she would do anything he asked, especially since she had all but confessed that she was helping the resistance by taking strategic photographs, but he didn’t want to ask. He’d heard rumors about what the Vichy government officials did with resistance workers.

Bivouacked in this hiding place with a bum leg, he could only imagine what was going on outside. He wished he could be mapping the terrain, setting up radar sets and Krypton lights to signal the drop zone. Now that he’d met Lisette, he wanted that more than ever—to be part of the force that would liberate her village along with the rest of southern France.

He took out his frustration by fashioning a pair of makeshift crutches, gouging the wood with savage strength. Despite the searing pain, he knew he was getting stronger. His ribs were healing. It was now possible to take a breath without wanting to scream. The leg was another matter. But still, he was determined to get back on his feet, and soon.

And then what?

The question haunted him. He stared at the opening of the hut, which framed a view of the sky. He’d memorized what the sky looked like at every hour of the day. He could tell it was around nine at night, judging by the deep orange hues cast by the dying sun.

He heard the sound of someone approaching. Footfalls on uneven ground. As always, he held his breath, because even though Lisette swore no one would come near, he had to be vigilant. Then he heard her signal—the soft whistle of a bird.

And just like that, his heart was filled with happiness. She was magic that way.

“Bonsoir, mon beau monsieur,” she said.

He heard a special note in her voice. A trill, almost. “You’re in a good mood tonight.”

“I am,” she said, setting down a basket that emitted the most delicious aroma. “I’ve brought you a strawberry tart. And something special.” She took a bottle from her basket. “Champagne.”

“Wow, I’ve never tasted champagne. Are you celebrating something?”

“We all are. All of France. All the world.” She tipped back her head and laughed, looking as fresh as a rose, and so beautiful his heart skipped a beat.

“There’s news?” He sat forward, eager to hear.

She nodded. “There was a report on a contraband radio. The Allies have landed in Normandy and are in the process of taking back all of France.”

“Really? When? How?” He couldn’t get his questions out fast enough. Everyone knew a huge invasion was in the works to keep the Germans out of England, but the actual time and place were top secret. Now the news was out that there had been a massive invasion on the beaches of Normandy at the beginning of the month. The fighting had been brutal, but they had the Germans on the run, and were liberating villages one by one, making their way to Paris.