“His wife died?”

“She did, just last year. Madame Picoche said she drowned in the Calanques. The swimming is so hazardous there. Let us be especially kind to Monsieur Palomar.”

Picking up the serving tray, Lisette followed her mother out to the garden.

“Voilà,” said her father with a genial smile. “A glass to welcome the evening.”

Maman poured, and they touched each other’s glasses in salut. Lisette had always thought there was something magical about those rare, sun-gilt in-between moments just as day slipped into twilight. Before her father’s accident, it marked his transition from a day of labor to the relaxation of evening. He would shuck his ouvrier’s trousers and wash up at the outdoor basin, singing “Dis-moi, Janette” or some other old song. When she and her brothers were small, Maman gave them lemonade, and the family would sit together, enjoying the special time as they reconnected with Papa.

She was proud to see her father now, keeping his dignity despite all he had lost—his sons, his work, the use of his legs—as he conversed with the mayor of the town. They talked of the things that weighed on everyone’s minds these days—the invasion of the Italians, the war with Germany in the north, the shortages, the air raids.

Lisette sipped her vin maison slowly, savoring the herbal taste. She didn’t eat any of the olives, not wanting to hasten the dwindling of the supply. Monsieur Palomar seemed cordial enough, but there was something about him. She couldn’t put her finger on it. Then he caught her staring, offered a genial smile and a tip of his glass, and she chided herself. This was the man who had shielded her from the foreign soldiers, after all.

“How is it,” her father asked, “that you’ve managed so well through all this?”

“Albert,” said Maman. “He is a guest. Don’t be rude.”

“No rudeness is meant,” Papa clarified.

“And none taken,” said Monsieur Palomar. “I am committed to protecting our village. Sometimes, this means facing terrible choices. Capitulate and avoid bloodshed, or resist and invite bloodshed. I have no taste for capitulation, but what choice do we have? Our national pride might be wounded, but it does not bleed like our citizens do.”

“We are lucky to have a mayor who understands this,” said Maman.

The light deepened, and the curfew bells sounded. “I must be going. My sister Rotrude will scold me if I’m late to supper.” He stood, and his face seemed haunted by sadness. “Her husband died in the fighting only a month after I lost my wife, and so she and her little daughter have come back to Sauveterre. It would be a quiet, lonely place but for the Italians billeted there.”

“There are soldiers under your roof?”

He nodded. “I had no choice. Rotrude complains of their manners, and they drink our wine as if it’s water. All my late wife’s grenache is gone. I used to take comfort in drinking the wine she made.”