The Nightingale

The nightmares wouldn’t let her go. In some distant part of her brain she heard her own whimpering, heard Sophie say, “Maman, you’re taking all the blankets,” but none of it wakened her. In her nightmare, she was in a chair, being interrogated. The boy, Daniel. He’s a Jew. Give him to me, Von Richter said, shoving his gun in her face … then his face changed, melted a little, and he turned into Beck, who was holding the photograph of his wife and shaking his head, but the side of his face was missing … and then Isabelle lying on the floor, bleeding, saying, I’m sorry Vianne, and Vianne was yelling. You’re not welcome here …

Vianne woke with a start, breathing hard. The same nightmares had plagued her for six days; she consistently woke feeling exhausted and worried. It was November now, and there had been no word about Isabelle at all. She eased out from beneath the blankets. The floor was cold, but not as cold as it would be in a few weeks. She reached for the shawl she’d left on the foot of the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Von Richter had claimed the upstairs bedroom. Vianne had abandoned the floor to him, choosing to move with her children into the smaller downstairs bedroom, where they slept together on the double bed.

Beck’s room. No wonder she dreamed of him in here. The air held on to his scent, reminded her that the man she’d known no longer lived, that she had killed him. She longed to do penance for this sin, but what could she do? She had killed a man—a decent man, in spite of it all. It didn’t matter to her that he was the enemy or even that she’d done it to save her sister. She knew she had made the right choice. It wasn’t right or wrong that haunted her. It was the act itself. Murder.

She left the bedroom and closed the door behind her, shutting it with a quiet click.

Von Richter sat on the divan, reading a novel, drinking a cup of real coffee. The aroma made her almost sick with longing. The Nazi had billeted here for several days already, and each of those mornings had smelled of rich, bitter roasted coffee—and Von Richter made sure she smelled it, and wanted it. But she couldn’t have so much as a sip; he made sure of that, too. Yesterday morning he had dumped an entire pot into the sink, smiling at her as he did so.

He was a man who had stumbled into a little bit of power and seized it with both hands. She’d known that within the first few hours of his arrival, when he’d chosen the best room and gathered up the warmest blankets for his bed, when he’d taken all of the pillows left in the house and all of the candles, leaving Vianne a single oil lamp for her use.

“Herr Sturmbannführer,” she said, smoothing her shapeless dress and worn cardigan.

He didn’t look up from the German newspaper that held his attention. “More coffee.”

She took his empty cup and went to the kitchen, returning quickly with another cup.

“The Allies are wasting their time in North Africa,” he said, taking the cup from her, putting it on the table beside him.

“Oui, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

His hand snaked out and coiled around her wrist tight enough to leave a bruise. “I am having men over for supper tonight. You will cook. And keep that boy away from me. His crying sounds like a dying pig.”

He let go.

“Oui, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

She got out of his way quickly, hurrying into the bedroom and closing the door behind her. She bent and wakened Daniel, feeling his soft breathing against the crook of her neck.

“Maman,” he mumbled around his thumb, which he was furiously sucking. “Sophie is snoring too loud.”

Vianne smiled and reached over to tousle Sophie’s hair. Amazingly, even though it was wartime and they were terrified and starving, somehow a girl her age could still manage to sleep through anything. “You sound like a water buffalo, Sophie,” Vianne teased.

“Very funny,” Sophie muttered, sitting up. She glanced at the closed door. “Is Herr Doryphore still here?”

“Sophie!” Vianne admonished, glancing worriedly at the closed door.

“He can’t hear us,” Sophie said.

“Still,” Vianne said quietly, “I cannot imagine why you would compare our guest to a bug that eats potatoes.” She tried not to smile.

Daniel hugged Vianne and gave her a sloppy kiss.

As she patted his back and held him close, nuzzling the downy softness of his cheek, she heard a car engine start up.

Thank God.

“He is leaving,” she murmured to the boy, nuzzling his cheek. “Come along, Sophie.” She carried Daniel into the living room, which still smelled of freshly brewed coffee and men’s cologne, and began her day.

*

People had called Isabelle impetuous for as long as she could remember. And then rash and, most lately, reckless. In the past year, she had grown up enough to see the truth of it. From earliest memory, she had acted first and thought about consequences later. Perhaps it was because she’d felt alone for so long. No one had ever been her sounding board, her best friend. She hadn’t had someone with whom to strategize or work through her problems.

Beyond that, she had never had great impulse control. Maybe because she’d never had anything to lose.

Now, she knew what it meant to be afraid, to want something—or someone—so much it made your heart ache.

The old Isabelle would simply have told Ga?tan she loved him and let the cards fall as they would.

The new Isabelle wanted to walk away without even trying. She didn’t know if she had the strength to be rejected again.

And yet.