The Nightingale

“Such as it is, Herr Sturmbannführer. There was very little to be had today, even with our ration cards.”

“Perhaps if your men hadn’t been such cowards, you women wouldn’t be so hungry.”

She gritted her teeth in what she hoped passed for a smile.

He studied her face, which she knew was chalky pale. “Are you all right, Madame?”

“Fine, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

“Allow me to carry your basket. I will escort you home.”

She gripped the basket. “No, really, it’s not necessary—”

He reached a black-gloved hand toward her. She had no choice but to place the twisted willow handle in his hand.

He took the basket from her and began walking. She fell into step beside him, feeling conspicuous walking with an SS officer through the streets of Carriveau.

As they walked, Von Richter made conversation. He talked about the Allies’ certain defeat in North Africa, he talked about the cowardice of the French and the greediness of the Jews, he talked about the Final Solution as if it were a recipe to be exchanged among friends.

She could hardly make out his words over the roar in her head. When she dared to glance at the basket, she saw the baguette peeking out from beneath the red-and-white linen that covered it.

“You are breathing like a racehorse, Madame. Are you unwell?”

Yes. That was it.

She forced a cough, clamped a hand over her mouth. “I am sorry, Herr Sturmbannführer. I was hoping not to bother you with it, but sadly, I fear I caught the flu from that boy the other day.”

He stopped. “Have I not asked you to keep your germs away from me?” He shoved the basket at her so hard it hit her in the chest. She grabbed hold of it desperately, afraid it would fall and the baguette would break open and spill false papers at his feet.

“I-I am so sorry. It was thoughtless of me.”

“I will not be home for supper,” he said, turning on his heel.

Vianne stood there a few moments—just long enough to be polite, in case he turned around—and then she hurried for home.

*

Well past midnight that night, when Von Richter had been abed for hours, Vianne crept from her bedroom and went to the empty kitchen. She carried a chair back to her bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind her. She brought the chair to the nightstand, tucked it in close, and sat down. By the light of a single candle, she withdrew the blank identity papers from her girdle.

She took out her own identity papers and studied them in minute detail. Then she took out the family Bible and opened it. On every blank space she could find, she practiced forging signatures. At first she was so nervous that her penmanship was unsteady, but the more she practiced, the calmer she felt. When her hands and breathing had steadied, she forged a new birth certificate for Jean Georges, naming him Emile Duvall.

But new papers weren’t enough. What would happen when the war was over and Hélène Ruelle returned? If Vianne weren’t here (with the risk she was taking, she had to consider this terrible possibility), Hélène would have no idea where to look for her son or what name he’d been given.

She would need to create a fiche, a file card that had all of the information she had on him—who he really was, who his parents were, any known relatives. Everything she could think of.

She ripped out three pages from the Bible and made a list on each page.

On the first, in dark ink over the prayers, she wrote:

Ari de Champlain 1

Jean Georges Ruelle 2

On the second sheet, she wrote:

1. Daniel Mauriac





2. Emile Duvall


And on the third, she wrote:

1. Carriveau. Mauriac

2. Abbaye de la Trinité

She carefully rolled each page into a small cylinder. Tomorrow she would hide them in three different places. One in a dirty jar in the shed, which she would fill with nails; one in an old paint can in the barn; and one she would bury in a box in the chicken coop. The fiche cards she would leave with Mother at the Abbey.

The cards and lists, when put together, would identify the children after the war and make it possible to get them back to their families. It was dangerous, of course, writing down any of this, but if she didn’t keep a record—and the worst happened to her—how would the hidden children ever be reunited with their parents?

For a long time, Vianne stared down at her work, so long that the children sleeping in her bed began to move around and mumble and the candle flame began to sputter. She leaned over and laid a hand on Daniel’s warm back to comfort him. Then she climbed into bed with her children. It was a long time before she fell asleep.





THIRTY-ONE

May 6, 1995