The Nightingale

“My brother threw a rock at me. I was too slow to duck,” he said. “Georges,” he said fondly; the tenor of his voice reminded Isabelle that Ga?tan’s brother was a prisoner of war.

He had a whole life she knew almost nothing about. A mother who was a seamstress and a father who raised pigs … he lived in the woods somewhere, in a house with no running water and only a single room for all of them. He answered her questions about all of it, but volunteered almost nothing. He said he preferred to hear her stories about the adventures that had gotten her kicked out of so many schools. It’s better than stories of poor people just trying to get by, he said.

But beneath all their words, the stories traded back and forth, she felt their time eroding. They couldn’t stay here long. Already, they’d overstayed. She was fit enough to travel. Not to cross the Pyrenees, perhaps, but certainly she didn’t need to lie abed.

How could she leave him? They might never see each other again.

That was the crux of her fear.

“I get it, you know,” Ga?tan said.

She didn’t know what he meant, but she heard the hollowness in his voice and knew it wasn’t good. The sadness that came with being in his bed—matched equally with joy—expanded.

“Get what?” she asked, but she didn’t want to hear.

“That every time we kiss, it’s good-bye.”

She closed her eyes.

“The war is out there, Iz. I need to get back to it.”

She knew and agreed, though it caused a constriction in her chest. “I know” was all she could say, afraid that any deeper exploration would hurt more than she could bear.

“There is a group gathering at Urrugne,” she said. “I should be there by nightfall on Wednesday, if we’re lucky.”

“We are not lucky,” he said. “You must know that by now.”

“You are wrong, Ga?tan. Now that you’ve met me, you’ll never be able to forget me. That’s something.” She leaned over for a kiss.

He said something softly, quietly, against her lips; maybe it was “it’s not enough.” She didn’t care. She didn’t want to hear.

*

In November, the people of Carriveau began to hunker down into winter survival mode again. They knew now what they hadn’t known last winter: Life could get worse. War was being waged all over the world; in Africa, in the Soviet Union, in Japan, on an island somewhere called Guadalcanal. With the Germans fighting on so many fronts, food had become even more scarce, as had wood and gas and electricity and everyday supplies.

This Friday morning was particularly cold and gray. Not a good day for venturing out, but Vianne had decided that today was The Day. It had taken some time to work up the courage to leave the house with Daniel, but she knew that it had to be done. His hair was cut so short he was almost bald and she’d dressed him in oversized clothes to make him look smaller. Anything to disguise him.

She forced herself to show good posture as she walked through town, with a child on each side of her—Sophie and Daniel.

Daniel.

At the boulangerie, she took her place at the back of the queue. She waited breathlessly for someone to ask about the boy beside her, but the women in line were too tired and hungry and downtrodden even to look up. When it was finally Vianne’s turn at the counter, Yvette looked up. She had been a beautiful woman only two years ago, with flowing copper-colored hair and eyes as black as coal. Now, three years into the war, she looked aged and tired. “Vianne Mauriac. I have not seen you with your daughter for a while. Bonjour, Sophie, you have grown so tall.” She peered over the counter. “And who is this good-looking young man?”

“Daniel,” he said proudly.

Vianne placed a trembling hand on his shorn head. “I adopted him from Antoine’s cousin in Nice. She … died.”

Yvette pushed the frizzy hair out of her eyes, pulled a strand of it out of her mouth as she stared down at the toddler. She had three sons of her own, one not much older than Daniel.

Vianne’s heart hammered in her chest.

Yvette stepped back from the counter. She went to the small door that separated the shop from the bakery. “Herr Lieutenant,” she said. “Could you come out here?”

Vianne tightened her grip on her willow basket handle, working it as if it were piano keys.

A portly German ambled out of the back room, his arms overflowing with freshly baked baguettes. He saw Vianne and stopped. “Madame,” he said, his apple cheeks bulging at the fullness of his mouth.

Vianne could barely nod.

Yvette said to the soldier, “There’s no more bread today, Herr Lieutenant. If I make more I will save the best for you and your men. This poor woman couldn’t even get a day-old baguette.”

The man’s eyes narrowed appreciatively. He moved toward Vianne, his flat feet thumping on the stone floor. Wordlessly, he dropped a half-eaten baguette into her basket. Then he nodded and left the shop, a little bell tinkling at his exit.

When they were alone, Yvette moved in close to Vianne, so close she had to fight the urge to step back. “I heard you have an SS officer in your house now. What happened to the handsome captain?”