Jean-Luc was gone. She did not know where. He was probably dead, but she didn’t want to think about that. Louis Picoche had gone underground. She heard he was a key figure in the Maquis de Var—a band of guerrilla warriors dedicated to winning the liberation of France by any means necessary.

It gave her a certain satisfaction to organize the prints. She savored the sense of order and control, false though it was, and it gave her something to do during her many sleepless nights. She carefully dated her latest print—17 May 1944—and placed it in a box. The pictures were a record of her days, good and bad. If she were blessed with a child, it would be a way to show him or her what the world was like during these frightening times. She refused to consider the idea that the child could turn out anything like Didier.

When she received a secret directive a few days later, she instantly incinerated the coded note and went about her business. The request was for a series of photographs of the coastline from the perspective of the church steeple.

Something was about to happen. That was all she knew.

“Where are you off to?” Didier demanded as she secured her market basket to her bicycle.

“Confession,” she said.

“What for? You stopped going to church.”

“Because everyone hates us for being collaborators. But I still need to be shriven, now more than ever.” She spoke in a low voice so only he could hear. His reaction was one of silent, stone-faced rage. She knew he wouldn’t hit her in view of the soldiers.

From the church tower, the landscape looked deceptively peaceful. She took the requested photographs and wound the roll of exposed film, leaving it in the designated spot. She was in no hurry to get home and took the long way to Sauveterre, past a beautiful forest that bordered the river. The light was too low for a good picture.

When she heard the sound of a plane overhead, she scarcely looked up. The sound was common these days—the Germans patrolling the region, the Allies looking to bomb key targets such as bridges and munitions warehouses. Something caught her eye, a scrap of fabric on the ground, half covered by dead leaves and underbrush. She picked it up, discovering a canvas packet with trailing, shredded strings. Her heart pounded as she recognized the stenciled words in English—FIRST AID. Inside was a small carton labeled U.S. Army Carlisle Model. There were bandages and a syrette inside marked morphine.

Leaving the bicycle leaning against a tree, she did a slow turn around the area. A few other items littered the area—more scraps of canvas, a buckle, a metal pin of some sort. The underbrush had been trampled in places. She stood still, listening. The cold wind whistled through the trees and stirred the dry leaves and grasses. She noticed a dark smear on the trunk of a tree—blood?

Goose bumps prickled over her arms. Her breath came in quick, nervous puffs. She made out a vague trail that wound deeper into the woods and led toward a stream. Following this, she came to a sunken spot near the water, concealed by broken branches and leaves.