The Nightingale

“I’ll forget you.” He leaned forward. “I wonder if you can say the same.”

He marched into the house and came out again, carrying his leather valise. Without a glance at her, he returned to his automobile. The door slammed shut behind him.

Vianne reached for the gate to steady herself.

“They’re leaving,” Sophie said.

Vianne’s legs gave out. She crumpled to her knees. “He’s gone.”

Sophie knelt beside Vianne and held her tightly.

Daniel ran barefooted through the patch of dirt between them. “Me, too!” he yelled. “I want a hug!” He threw himself into them so hard they toppled over, fell into the dry grass.

*

In the month since the Germans had left Carriveau, there was good news everywhere about the Allied victories, but the war hadn’t ended. Germany hadn’t surrendered. The blackout had been softened to a “dim out,” so the windows let in light again—a surprising gift. But still Vianne couldn’t relax. Without Von Richter on her mind (she would never say his name out loud again, not as long as she lived, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him), she was obsessed with worry for Isabelle and Rachel and Antoine. She wrote Antoine a letter almost every day and stood in line to mail them, even though the Red Cross reported that no mail was getting through. They hadn’t heard from him in more than a year.

“You’re pacing again, Maman,” Sophie said. She was seated at the divan, snuggled up with Daniel, a book open between them. On the fireplace mantel were a few of the photographs Vianne had brought in from the cellar in the barn. It was one of the few things she could think to do to make Le Jardin a home again.

“Maman?”

Sophie’s voice brought Vianne back to herself.

“He’s coming home,” Sophie said. “And so is Tante Isabelle.”

“Mais oui.”

“What will we tell Papa?” Sophie asked, and Vianne knew by the look in Sophie’s eyes that she’d wanted to ask this for a while.

Vianne placed a hand on her still flat abdomen. There was no sign of the baby yet, but Vianne knew her body well; a life was growing within her. She left the living room and went to the front door, pushing it open. Barefooted, she stepped down on the cracked stone steps, feeling the soft moss on the bottoms of her feet. Taking care not to step on a sharp rock, she walked out to the road and turned toward town. Kept walking.

The cemetery appeared on her right. It had been ruined by a bomb blast two months ago. Aged stone markers lay on their sides, split in pieces. The ground was cracked and broken, with gaping holes here and there; skeletons hung from the tree branches, bones clattering in the breeze.

In the distance, she saw a man coming around the bend in the road.

In years to come, she would ask herself what had drawn her out here on this hot autumn day at exactly this hour, but she knew.

Antoine.

She started to run, heedless of her bare feet. It wasn’t until she was almost in his arms, close enough to reach out, that she stopped suddenly, drew herself up short. He would take one look at her and know that she had been ruined by another man.

“Vianne,” he said in a voice she barely recognized. “I escaped.”

He was so changed; his face had sharpened and his hair had gone gray. White stubble covered his hollow cheeks and jawline, and he was so terribly thin. His left arm hung at an odd angle, as if it had been broken and badly reset.

He was thinking the same of her. She could see it in his eyes.

His name came out in a whisper of breath. “Antoine.” She felt the sting of tears and saw that he was crying, too. She went to him, kissed him, but when he drew back, he looked like a man she’d never seen before.

“I can do better,” he said.

She took his hand. More than anything she wanted to feel close to him, connected, but the shame of what she’d endured created a wall between them.

“I thought of you every night,” he said as they walked toward home. “I imagined you in our bed, thought of how you looked in that white nightgown … I knew you were as alone as I was.”

Vianne couldn’t find her voice.

“Your letters and packages kept me going,” he said.

At the broken gate in front of Le Jardin, he paused.

She saw the house through his eyes. The tilted gate, the fallen wall, the dead apple tree that grew dirty scraps of cloth instead of bright red fruit.

He pushed the gate out of the way. It clattered sideways, still connected to the crumbling post by a single unsteady screw and bolt. It creaked in protest at being touched.

“Wait,” she said.

She had to tell him now, before it was too late. The whole town knew Nazis had billeted with Vianne. He would hear gossip, for sure. If a baby was born in eight months, they would suspect.

“It was hard without you,” she began, trying to find her way. “Le Jardin is so close to the airfield. The Germans noticed the house on their way into town. Two officers billeted here—”

The front door burst open and Sophie screamed, “Papa!” and came running across the yard.