“Slow down,” Jean-Luc said, clutching her upper arms and staring into her face. “Lisette, don’t panic.”

“I can’t help it. We have only until the end of the month.” She took a deep breath, reminding herself that hysterics would solve nothing. “I’m sorry,” she added, looking around the tiny apartment. “How is your mother?”

“She’s resting.” He indicated the next room with a nod. Then he lowered his voice. “The doctor said there’s nothing more to be done except to keep her comfortable.”

Suddenly this made her troubles slink away into a back corner of her mind. “Jean-Luc, I’m so sorry. How can I help?”

“By being you. By being here.” He touched her cheek. He had a very gentle touch.

Jean-Luc was the first boy—the only boy—she had ever kissed. Someday, she might even fall in love with him, the way people fell in love in the movies, with a blinding éclat of passion.

She heard a faint crackling sound, like a fire. Then she looked at the table where he’d been sitting, and for the first time noticed a large case filled with a jumble of tubes, knobs, and switches. It was a homemade radio.

She looked up at Jean-Luc, feeling all the color drain from her face. “My God. You’re working for the partisans.”

Lisette heard the churr of a nightjar, and then the sound she’d been straining to hear—a low whistle. She slipped out of bed and dressed quickly in a plain blouse and smock, then padded barefoot to the door. She paused, listening for her parents—the soft whistle of Papa’s almost-snore, a light sigh from Maman.

Then she stepped outside. The street was dark, the quiet stirred by the nightjar and the burble of the river flowing under the old stone bridge. The scent of magnolia, cypress, and plane trees rode the breeze. Blackout regulations prohibited even the slightest leak of light from a streetlamp or window, so she stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness. She could make out the bulky shadow of the church at the top of the village, and the craggy profile of the bridge close by. Picking up her market basket and boots, she crossed the bridge.

“Over here,” came a whisper. Jean-Luc d’Estérel waited with his bicycle next to the bridge tower. “Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

He reached for her, planting a firm kiss on her lips. Her heart sped up as she savored the taste and smell of him.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked.

“I’m sure. I only wish you had let me help long ago.” She put on her boots.

“This work is dangerous, Lisette, make no mistake. A partisan was taken last week in Marseille, and Louis said he was tortured in ways I don’t even want to describe to you. By the French.”

Jean-Luc’s friend Louis Picoche seemed to know everything. He relied on a small, tight-knit group who knew how to keep a secret.