She pretended not to hear the harsh voices and kissing sounds, but one of them blocked her way. “Where are you going, pretty girl?” he asked in broken French. “What are you carrying in your basket?”

The camera. She clutched it closer to her body, hoping the leeks and greens from Dr. Toselli’s garden concealed the precious box.

“Please,” she said quietly. “It’s just a few discarded vegetables for my parents.”

“Very well, then, you must join us for a glass of wine.” The soldier was swarthy and thick-limbed, his drab uniform reeking of sweat. He placed his hand on her arm.

She yanked it away as if burned, trying not to panic. “Do not touch me. Monsieur,” she added.

“We are here for your protection. This is no way to show your gratitude.” He took her arm again.

She cast a wild look around, hoping the barman or a passerby would help. “Leave me alone,” she said loudly.

“What is this?” asked a smooth, French voice.

She whipped around to see Didier Palomar, the town mayor. Monsieur Palomar owned a fine mas called Sauveterre, his ancient familial manor surrounded by fields, vineyards, meadows, and creeks that flowed down to the sea. At Sunday Mass he was a haughty presence in fine clothes, his blond hair and steely gray eyes commanding attention. But he was French, and held a position of authority, a far more trustworthy ally than the hard-drinking foreign soldiers.

“Monsieur le maire, I am simply trying to make my way home to my parents. I have no wish to cause trouble.”

“Very well, then, I shall accompany you myself.” He said something to the soldiers in Italian. A couple of them made rude gestures, but they returned to their drinking.

“You are Albert Galli’s girl, no?” Didier asked as they walked down a steeply winding street.

“Yes, sir.” She was shaken by the encounter. Her voice sounded thin, and her wobbly legs barely supported her.

Monsieur Palomar placed his hand under her elbow. “Your name is Lisette.”

She wondered how he knew. “Yes, sir,” she said again.

“You’ve grown to be a lovely young lady. Best you steer clear of the soldiers.”

“I will,” she said, though she felt a deep resentment. What right had they to move into this peaceful village, which had committed no offense except to be in the path of Hitler and Mussolini’s ambitions?

They reached the cottage, and she hesitated at the doorway, feeling a struggle between pride and manners. She was a Galli; manners won. “Would you like to come in for an aperitif?” she asked.

“How kind of you,” he said, and held open the door.

“Maman, Papa, we have a guest,” she said, seeing them in the tiny garden behind the house, an oasis her father had created with a stone enclosure and a small pond. “It is Monsieur Palomar.”

The mayor strode out to the garden, taking her father’s hand and then her mother’s.

“Please, sit down,” said her father.