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?”

“Not if I stay here.”

“And now that your maman is gone . . .” Toselli said.