The Nightingale

“Oh no,” Sophie said.

Vianne looked down at her terrified daughter and saw her own fear replicated in the beloved eyes, and all at once she knew what she needed to do. “We have to try to save him or we are as bad as they are,” she said. And there it was. She hated to bring her daughter into this, but what choice was there? “I have to save this boy.”

“How?”

“I don’t know yet,” Vianne admitted.

“But Von Richter—”

As if drawn by his own name, the Nazi appeared at the front door, looking fussily precise in his uniform. “Ah, Madame Mauriac,” he said, his gaze narrowing as he approached her. “There you are.”

Vianne struggled for calm. “We have been to town for shopping.”

“Not a good day for that. Jews are being collected for deportation.” He walked toward her, his boots tamping down the wet grass. Beside him, the apple tree was barren of leaves; bits of fabric fluttered from the empty branches. Red. Pink. White. A new one for Beck—in black.

“And who is this fine-looking youngster?” Von Richter said, touching the child’s tear-streaked cheek with one black-gloved finger.

“A f-friend’s boy. His mother died of tuberculosis this week.”

Von Richter lurched backward, as if she’d said bubonic plague. “I don’t want that child in the house. Is that understood? You will take him to the orphanage this instant.”

The orphanage. Mother Marie-Therese.

She nodded. “Of course, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

He made a flicking gesture with his hand as if to say, Go, now. He started to walk away. Then he stopped and turned back to face Vianne. “I want you home this evening for supper.”

“I am always home, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

“We leave tomorrow, and I want you to feed me and my men a good meal before we go.”

“Leave?” she asked, feeling a spike of hope.

“We are occupying the rest of France tomorrow. No more Free Zone. It’s about damn time. Letting you French govern yourselves was a joke. Good day, Madame.”

Vianne remained where she was, standing still, holding the child’s hand. Above the sound of Jean Georges’s crying, she heard the gate squeak open and slam shut. Then a car engine started up.

When he was gone, Sophie said, “Will Mother Marie-Therese hide him?”

“I hope so. Take Daniel into the house and lock the door. Don’t open it for anyone but me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Sophie looked old for her age suddenly, wise beyond her years. “Good for you, Maman.”

“We shall see” was all the hope she had left.

When her children were safely in the house, with the door locked, she said to the boy beside her, “Come, Jean Georges, we are going for a walk.”

“To my maman?”

She couldn’t look at him. “Come.”

*

As Vianne and the boy walked back to town, an intermittent rain began. Jean Georges alternately cried and complained, but Vianne was so nervous she barely heard him.

How could she ask Mother Superior to take this risk?

How could she not?

They walked past the church to the convent hidden behind it. The Order of the Sisters of St. Joseph had begun in 1650 with six like-minded women who simply wanted to serve the poor in their community. They had grown to thousands of members throughout France until religious communities were forbidden by the state during the French revolution. Some of the original six sisters had become martyrs for their beliefs—guillotined for their faith.

Vianne went to the abbey’s front door and lifted the heavy iron knocker, letting it fall against the oak door, clattering hard.

“Why are we here?” Jean Georges whined. “Is my maman here?”

“Shhh.”

A nun answered, her sweet, plump face bracketed by the white wimple and black hood of her habit. “Ah, Vianne,” she said, smiling.

“Sister Agatha, I would like to speak to Mother Superior, if that’s possible.”

The nun stepped back, her habit swishing on the stone floor. “I will see. You two take a seat in the garden?”

Vianne nodded. “Merci.” She and Jean Georges made their way through the cold cloisters. At the end of one arched corridor, they turned left and went into the garden. It was good sized, and square, with frosted brown grass and a marble lion’s head fountain and several stone benches placed here and there. Vianne took a seat on one of the cold benches out of the rain, and pulled the boy up beside her.

She didn’t have long to wait.

“Vianne,” Mother said, coming forward, her habit dragging on the grass, her fingers closed around the large crucifix that hung from a chain around her neck. “How good it is to see you. It’s been too long. And who is this young man?”

The boy looked up. “Is my maman here?”

Vianne met Mother Superior’s even gaze with one of her own. “His name is Jean Georges Ruelle, Mother. I would speak to you alone if we could.”

Mother clapped her hands and a young nun appeared to take the boy away. When they were alone, Mother Superior sat down beside Vianne.

Vianne couldn’t corral her thoughts and so a silence fell between them.