The Nightingale

A burly, square-headed sentry blocked their way and demanded to see their passes and papers.

Isabelle offered her Juliette papers. Ga?tan offered his own false documents, but the soldier was more interested in the goings-on behind him. He barely glanced at the documents and handed them back.

Isabelle gave him her most innocent smile. “What’s happening today?”

“No more Free Zone,” the soldier said, waving them through.

“No more Free Zone? But—”

“We are taking over all of France,” he said roughly. “No more pretense that your ridiculous Vichy government is in charge anywhere. Go.”

Ga?tan pulled her forward, through the amassing troops.

For hours, as they walked, they were honked at by German lorries and automobiles in a hurry to get past them.

It wasn’t until they reached the quaint seaside town of Saint-Jean-de-Luz that they were able to escape the gathering Nazis. They walked along the empty seawall, perched high above the pounding surf of the Atlantic Ocean. Below them, a curl of yellow sand held the mighty, angry ocean at bay. In the distance, a lush green peninsula was dotted with houses built in the Basque tradition, with white sides and red doors and bright red tile roofs. The sky overhead was a faded, washed-out blue, with clouds stretched as taut as clotheslines. There were no other people out today, neither on the beach nor walking along the ancient seawall.

For the first time in hours, Isabelle could breathe. “What does it mean, no Free Zone?”

“It is not good, that’s for sure. It will make your work more dangerous.”

“I’ve been moving through Occupied territory already.”

She tightened her hold on his hand and led him off the seawall. They stepped down the uneven steps and made their way to the road.

“We used to vacation out here when I was little,” she said. “Before my maman died. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I barely remember.”

She wanted it to be the start of a conversation, but her words fell into the new silence between them and went unanswered. In the quiet, Isabelle felt the suffocating weight of missing him, even though he was holding her hand. Why hadn’t she asked him more questions in their days together, gotten to know everything about him? Now there was no time left and they both knew it. They walked in a heavy silence.

In the haze of early evening, Ga?tan got his first glimpse of the Pyrenees.

The jagged, snow-dusted mountains rose into the leaden sky, their snow-tipped peaks ringed in clouds. “Merde. You crossed those mountains how many times?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“You’re a wonder,” he said.

“I am,” she said with a smile.

They continued up, through the dark, empty streets of Urrugne, climbing with every step, moving past the closed-up shops and bistros full of old men. Beyond town lay the dirt path that led into the foothills. At last they came to the cottage tucked into the dark foothills, its chimney puffing smoke.

“Are you okay?” he asked, noticing that she had slowed her step.

“I will miss you,” she said quietly. “How long can you stay?”

“I have to leave in the morning.”

She wanted to release the hold on his hand, but it was difficult. She had this terrible, irrational fear that if she let go of him she would never touch him again and the thought of that was paralyzing. Still, she had a job to do. She let go of him and knocked three times sharply in rapid succession.

Madame opened the door. Dressed in man’s clothing, smoking a Gauloises, she said, “Juliette! Come, come.” She stepped back, welcoming Isabelle and Ga?tan into the main room, where four airmen stood around the dining table. A fire burned in the hearth, and above the flames a black cast-iron pot bubbled and hissed and popped. Isabelle could smell the stew’s ingredients—goat meat; wine; bacon; thick, rich stock; mushrooms and sage. The aroma was heavenly and reminded her that she hadn’t eaten all day.

Madame gathered the men together and introduced them—there were three RAF pilots and an American flier. The three Brits had been there for days, waiting for the American, who had arrived yesterday. Eduardo would be leading them over the mountains in the morning.

“It’s good to meet you,” one of them said, shaking Isabelle’s hand as if she were a water pump. “You’re just as beautiful as we’ve been told.”

The men started talking all at once. Ga?tan moved easily into their midst, as if he belonged with them. Isabelle stood beside Madame Babineau and handed her the envelope of money that should have been delivered almost two weeks earlier. “I’m sorry about the delay.”

“You had a good excuse. How are you feeling?”

Isabelle moved her shoulder, testing it. “Better. In another week, I’ll be ready to make the crossing again.”

Madame handed Isabelle the Gauloises. Isabelle took a long drag and exhaled, studying the men who were now in her charge. “How are they?”

“See the tall, thin one—nose like a Roman emperor?”