It was empty, so she slipped behind the curtain and knelt down, making the sign of the cross. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”

She waited for Father Rinaldo to respond, her mind wandering. It must be so tedious for the priest, listening to her petty offenses. She was simply not interesting enough to have anything of substance to confess. And although it was probably a sin in and of itself, she knew that if she ever did anything interesting enough to warrant a confession, she wouldn’t admit it.

Maybe she should tell him how guilty she felt that she couldn’t be more helpful to her parents. Her father, an expert stonecutter, had suffered a grievous accident a year before. Now he was confined to a wheelchair, and the family depended on the charity of neighbors and the Church to sustain them. Sometimes she heard anxious whispers in the night. They would soon be put out of their cottage because they couldn’t pay their taxes. Her mother feared they would be reduced to begging—or worse. The threat of prison hung over their heads. There was talk of going to a charity house in Marseille, a horrifying prospect to her once-proud father.

Perhaps she should confess a crime of the heart. She had let Jean-Luc d’Estérel kiss her, several times, and she was probably going to fall in love with him. He was incredibly handsome, with large dark eyes fringed by thick lashes, a strong jaw, and a graceful aquiline nose. Jean-Luc was Jewish, which meant the Church would probably deem their romance sinful.

“Monseigneur?” she whispered after a few minutes had passed.

Still no response from the priest. A moment later, she heard a gentle snore.

Lisette sighed. “Very well, then. My sins are terribly boring.” She whispered the Act of Contrition in Latin, then slipped out of the confessional. No penance today.

Carrying her basket, she left the church and wound down through the narrow alleyways of the village. She and her parents had a cottage by the bridge that spanned the river. Their next-door neighbor used to be in charge of the sluices that controlled the flow of water, but he had been evicted by the invading soldiers, because the bridge was a major strategic point. Now sandbags formed a makeshift embankment around the structure to protect it in the event of a bombing. Only a year ago, a bombing had been the last thing on her mind. The bridge was simply a way to get from one side of the river to the other. Now it was a target for bombs, a prize to be fought over by opposing forces.

She made the mistake of taking a shortcut past the Bar Zinc, a gathering place for soldiers. Not so long ago, her village had been a safe place, filled with friendly faces and abundant food and wine from the surrounding farms and vineyards. These days, Bellerive seethed with whispered rumors, black-market dealings, armed foreigners roaming the streets. A group of them was gathered at a sidewalk table, and inevitably, they spotted her. A babble of Italian catcalls erupted.