The Nightingale

Antoine dropped awkwardly to one knee and opened his arms and Sophie ran into him.

Vianne felt pain open up and expand. He was home, just as she’d prayed for, but she knew now that it wasn’t the same; it couldn’t be. He was changed. She was changed. She placed a hand on her flat belly.

“You are so grown up,” Antoine said to his daughter. “I left a little girl and came home to a young woman. You’ll have to tell me what I missed.”

Sophie looked past him to Vianne. “I don’t think we should talk about the war. Any of it. Ever. It’s over.”

Sophie wanted Vianne to lie.

Daniel appeared in the doorway, dressed in short pants and a red knit turtleneck that had lost its shape and socks that sagged over his ill-fitting secondhand shoes. Clutching a picture book to his narrow chest, he jumped down from the step and came toward them, frowning.

“And who is this good-looking young man?” Antoine asked.

“I’m Daniel,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sophie’s father.”

Daniel’s eyes widened. He dropped the book and threw himself at Antoine, yelling, “Papa! You’re home!”

Antoine scooped the boy into his arms and lifted him up.

“I’ll tell you,” Vianne said. “But let’s go inside now and celebrate.”

*

Vianne had fantasized about her husband’s return from war a thousand times. In the beginning, she’d imagined him dropping his suitcase at the sight of her and sweeping her into his big, strong arms.

And then Beck had moved into her home, making her feel things for a man—an enemy—that even now she refused to name. When he’d told her of Antoine’s imprisonment, she’d pared down her expectations. She’d imagined her husband thinner, more ragged looking, but still Antoine when he returned.

The man at her dinner table was a stranger. He hunched over his food and wrapped his arms around his plate, spooning marrow bone broth into his mouth as if the meal were a timed event. When he realized what he was doing, he flushed guiltily and gave them a mumbled apology.

Daniel talked constantly, while Sophie and Vianne studied the shadow version of Antoine. He jumped at every sound and flinched when he was touched, and the pain in his eyes was impossible to miss.

After supper, he put the children to bed while Vianne did the dishes alone. She was happy to let him go, which only increased her guilt. He was her husband, the love of her life, and yet, when he touched her, it was all she could do not to turn away. Now, standing at the window in her bedroom, she felt nervous as she awaited him.

He came up behind her. She felt his strong sure hands on her shoulders, heard him breathing behind her. She longed to lean back, rest her body against his with the familiarity that came from years together, but she couldn’t. His hands caressed her shoulders, ran down her arms, and then settled on her hips. He gently turned her to face him.

He eased the collar of her robe sideways and kissed her shoulder. “You’re so thin,” he said, his voice hoarse with passion and something else, something new between them—loss, maybe, an acknowledgment that change had occurred in their absence.

“I’ve gained weight since the winter,” she said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”

“How did you escape?”

“When they started losing the war, it got … bad. They beat me so badly I lost the use of my left arm. I decided then I’d rather get shot running to you than be tortured to death. Once you’re ready to die, the plan gets easy.”

Now was the time to tell him the truth. He might understand that rape was torture and that she’d been a prisoner, too. It wasn’t her fault, what had happened to her. She believed that, but she didn’t think fault mattered in a thing like this.

He took her face in his hands and forced her to lift her chin.

Their kiss was sad, an apology almost, a reminder of what they’d once shared. She trembled as he undressed her. She saw the red marks that crisscrossed his back and torso, and the jagged, angry, puckering scars that ran the length of his left arm.

She knew Antoine wouldn’t hit her or hurt her. And still she was afraid.

“What is it, Vianne?” he said, drawing back.

She glanced at the bed, their bed, and all she could think about was him. Von Richter. “W-while you were gone…”

“Do we need to talk about it?”

She wanted to confess it all, to cry in his arms and be comforted and told that it would be all right. But what about Antoine? He’d been through hell, too. She could see it in him. There were red, slashing scars on his chest that looked like whip marks.

He loved her. She saw that, too, felt it.

But he was a man. If she told him she’d been raped—and that another man’s baby grew in her belly—it would eat at him. In time, he would wonder if she could have stopped Von Richter. Maybe someday he’d wonder if she’d enjoyed it.