The Nightingale

“I am sorry about your friend, Rachel.”

“And so many others,” Vianne said.

Mother nodded. “We have heard terrible rumors coming from Radio London about what is happening in the camps.”

“Perhaps our Holy Father—”

“He is silent on this matter,” Mother said, her voice heavy with disappointment.

Vianne took a deep breath. “Hélène Ruelle and her elder son were deported today. Jean Georges is alone. His mother … left him with me.”

“Left him with you?” Mother paused. “It is dangerous to have a Jewish child in your home, Vianne.”

“I want to protect him,” she said quietly.

Mother looked at her. She was silent so long that Vianne’s fear began to put down roots, grow. “And how would you accomplish this?” she asked at last.

“Hide him.”

“Where?”

Vianne looked at Mother, saying nothing.

Mother’s face drained of color. “Here?”

“An orphanage. What better place?”

Mother Superior stood and then sat. Then she stood again, her hands moved to the cross, held it. Slowly, she sat down again. Her shoulders sagged and then straightened when her decision was made. “A child in our care needs papers. Baptismal certificates—I can … get those, of course, but identity papers…”

“I will get them,” Vianne said, although she had no idea if it was possible.

“You know that it is illegal to hide Jews now. The punishment is deportation if you’re lucky, and lately, I believe no one is lucky in France.”

Vianne nodded.

Then Mother Superior said, “I will take the boy. And I … could make room for more than one Jewish child.”

“More?”

“Of course there are more, Vianne. I will speak to a man I know in Girot. He works for the ?uvre de Secours aux Enfants—the Help the Children Fund. I expect he will know many families and children in hiding. I will tell him to expect you.”

“M-me?”

“You are the leader of this now, and if we are risking our lives for one child, we may as well try to save more.” Mother got abruptly to her feet. She hooked her arm through Vianne’s, and the two women strolled the perimeter of the small garden. “No one here can know the truth. The children will have to be coached and have paperwork that passes inspection. And you would need a position here—perhaps as a teacher, oui, as a part-time teacher. That would allow us to pay you a small stipend and would answer questions about why you are here with the children.”

“Oui,” Vianne said, feeling shaky.

“Don’t look so afraid, Vianne. You are doing the right thing.”

She had no doubt that this was true, and still she was terrified. “This is what they have done to us. We are afraid of our own shadows.” She looked at Mother. “How will I do it? Go to scared, hungry women and ask them to give me their children?”

“You will ask them if they’ve seen their friends being herded onto trains and taken away. You will ask them what they would risk to keep their child off of that train. Then you will let each mother decide.”

“It is an unimaginable choice. I’m not sure I could do it, just hand Sophie and Daniel over to a stranger.”

Mother leaned close. “I hear one of their awful storm troopers is billeted at your house. You realize this puts you—and Sophie—at terrible risk.”

“Of course. But how can I let her believe it’s all right to do nothing in times such as these?”

Mother stopped. Releasing Vianne, she laid a soft palm against her cheek and smiled tenderly. “Be careful, Vianne. I have already been to your mother’s funeral. I do not want to attend yours.”





THIRTY

On an ice-cold mid-November day, Isabelle and Ga?tan left Brant?me and boarded a train to Bayonne. The carriage was overflowing with solemn German soldiers—more so than usual—and when they disembarked, they found more soldiers crowding the platform.

Isabelle held Ga?tan’s hand as they made their way through the gray-green uniforms. Two young lovers on their way to the beach town. “My maman used to love going to the beach. Did I ever tell you that?” Isabelle asked as they passed near two SS officers.

“You rich kids see all the good stuff.”

She smiled. “We were hardly rich, Ga?tan,” she said when they were outside the train station.

“Well you weren’t poor,” he said. “I know poor.” He paused, let that settle between them, and then he said, “I could be rich someday.

“Someday,” he said again with a sigh, and she knew what he was thinking. It was what they were always thinking: Will there be a France in our future? Ga?tan slowed.

Isabelle saw what had captured his attention.

“Keep moving,” he said.

A roadblock had been set up ahead of them. Troops were everywhere, carrying rifles.

“What’s going on?” Isabelle asked.

“They’ve seen us,” Ga?tan said. He tightened his hold on her hand. They strolled toward the swarm of German soldiers.