“I’ll bring something to drink,” her mother said.

“You’re very gracious, but I don’t need anything,” said Monsieur Palomar. “I simply wanted to see the young lady safely home.”

Lisette stood in the dim interior of the house, taking the vegetables from her basket. She stashed the camera under the root bin. These days, there was no safe place. Every home was vulnerable, not just to soldiers being billeted there, but also to air raids.

“You must allow us to serve you an aperitif,” her mother insisted. “I know it’s been forbidden by the central authority, but I make my own vin maison, a lovely ratafia of peaches and herbs.”

Monsieur Palomar paused, then gave a nod of the head. “Of course, then. I can see where your daughter gets her kind nature.”

Maman scurried into the kitchen as the two men talked. “Take out the good pitcher, Lisette,” said Maman. “Make sure there’s not a spot on it.”

While Lisette inspected the pitcher, Maman took the herb-infused wine from the icebox. Her brow knit in a frown, and Lisette knew she was yearning to set a better table for the mayor. But the taste of butter, milk, cheese, and meat was but a distant memory to the Galli family. Maman cut a few slices from the baguette and scooped a ladle of olives from their precious, dwindling supply. Olives were Papa’s favorite. Maman must have caught Lisette’s expression. “He is a very important man, Palomar is. He knows how to deal with the Italians. I’ve heard his farm still has its dairy cows and pigs.”

Local farms were ordered to billet and feed soldiers. Strict rationing rules were in place, and shortages were rampant. Military activity had destroyed the usual transport modes by sea, river barge, and railroads. Most of the labor force had gone to war or into hiding, so there were not enough workers to tend the crops, nor was there fuel to power the farm equipment. Even here in the countryside, supplementing food supplies by game hunting, foraging, and growing local produce was regulated, which actually meant the whole yield had to be handed over and redistributed by the authorities. Even the hour of aperitif had been forbidden, although in private homes, the rules were hard to enforce.

Lisette took down the thick, stubby aperitif glasses. On the inside of the cupboard door were the photos she had taken of her brothers before they went off to fight. The pictures stayed hidden, as villagers had been cautioned against overt displays of patriotism. The soldiers were paranoid, suspecting everyone of being maquisards, bush fighters of the Maquis, whose guerrilla tactics and secret communication network made them a fearsome enemy.

She cut a glance at Monsieur Palomar. Framed by the open cottage window, he looked relaxed and confident, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees to talk to Papa.

“Palomar is very handsome, eh?” Maman remarked.

Lisette flushed. “If you say so. For an older man.”

“He’s not so very old, perhaps thirty,” Maman said. “And a widower, so young.”