“We’re very sorry for your loss,” said Papa.

“And I for yours. Alas, my wife never gave me children, so I can only imagine the pain of losing your sons.” He squared his shoulders and looked at Lisette, his gaze scanning her from head to toe. “And there, I’ve made us all thoroughly maudlin. Let us look ahead to better times, eh?”

“More butter from Monsieur Palomar?” Lisette asked, taking her place at the supper table. For the past year, he’d been supplying them with rare treats of butter, cheese, bacon, coffee, and wine, supplementing the meager portions allowed by the rationing system. The mayor and Papa had become friends, and Palomar often said he would help the family if they ever needed anything.

“He’s been very generous,” Maman said, serving each of them a dish of soup and a cut of bread topped with the fresh butter.

Papa said a quick bénédicité, and then they raised their glasses. There was only water to drink, as the rationed wine was both scarce and foul. The shortages grew worse by the week. People were eating the workhorses they couldn’t afford to feed. Soups and stews made of foraged foods failed to fill bellies. If a fisherman had a good catch, the bounty was requisitioned and fed to the soldiers rather than distributed to the populace.

Lisette forced herself to eat slowly, even though hunger gnawed at her belly. It was frightening to see her parents’ sunken cheeks and thinning hair. Dr. Toselli, so jovial and robust when she had first started working for him, was sickly, his vision worse than ever. She had stopped accepting payment for her services, though she still visited him every day to keep house, to sit and talk, to read with him. She insisted that the English lessons were payment enough.

In addition to the lessons, he continued to school her in the art of the darkroom, and her obsession with photography grew. She helped Toselli with his penicillin production as well, even though he cautioned her about what would happen if she got caught. She didn’t care. If her efforts supported the war against Germany and Italy, she would take the risk. She had even persuaded her mother to cultivate cantaloupes in the garden, though she didn’t say why—they were the best for growing the mold that would yield the antibiotic.

“Delicious,” Papa pronounced. He tipped the bread crumbs from his napkin into his soup plate and took one last bite so as not to waste anything.

“We have dessert tonight. Another gift from monsieur le maire.” Maman lifted the pottery dome of the butter dish to reveal not butter, but—

“Chocolate!” Lisette said. “Maman, is that chocolate?”

Her mother nodded.

Papa cut the dark, glossy piece into three portions. “Bon appétit, my loves,” he said.

Lisette bit into hers, closing her eyes to savor the delicious rush. Chocolate! Such a thing was unheard of in these times. She felt almost dizzy with the flavor of it.