The Nightingale

The crowd stood there a moment longer, uncertain whether it was safe to move. No one wanted to be seen as taking the first step, and then suddenly they were moving, pack-like, toward the open doors that led them outside.

“Bastards,” Isabelle said as they moved into an alley.

“And I was so sure they’d let us keep our guns,” Rachel said, lighting up a cigarette, inhaling deeply and exhaling in a rush.

“I’m keeping our gun, I can tell you,” Isabelle said in a loud voice. “And our radio.”

“Shhh,” Vianne said.

“Général de Gaulle thinks—”

“I don’t want to hear that foolishness. We have to keep our heads down until our men come home,” Vianne said.

“Mon Dieu,” Isabelle said sharply. “You think your husband can fix this?”

“No,” Vianne said. “I believe you will fix it, you and your Général de Gaulle, of whom no one has ever heard. Now, come. While you are hatching a plan to save France, I need to tend to my garden. Come on, Rachel, let us dullards be away.”

Vianne held tightly to Sophie’s hand and walked briskly ahead. She did not bother to glance back to see if Isabelle was following. She knew her sister was back there, hobbling forward on her damaged feet. Ordinarily Vianne would keep pace with her sister, out of politeness, but just now she was too mad to care.

“Your sister may not be so wrong,” Rachel said as they passed the Norman church on the edge of town.

“If you take her side in this, I may be forced to hurt you, Rachel.”

“That being said, your sister may not be entirely wrong.”

Vianne sighed. “Don’t tell her that. She’s unbearable already.”

“She will have to learn propriety.”

“You teach her. She has proven singularly resistant to improving herself or listening to reason. She’s been to two finishing schools and still can’t hold her tongue or make polite conversation. Two days ago, instead of going to town for meat, she hid the valuables and created a hiding place for us. Just in case.”

“I should probably hide mine, too. Not that we have much.”

Vianne pursed her lips. There was no point in talking further about this. Soon, Antoine would be home and he would help keep Isabelle in line.

At the gate to Le Jardin, Vianne said good-bye to Rachel and her children, who kept walking.

“Why do we have to give them our radio, Maman?” Sophie asked. “It belongs to Papa.”

“We don’t,” Isabelle said, coming up beside them. “We will hide it.”

“We will not hide it,” Vianne said sharply. “We will do as we are told and keep quiet and soon Antoine will be home and he will know what to do.”

“Welcome to the Middle Ages, Sophie,” Isabelle said.

Vianne yanked her gate open, forgetting a second too late that the refugees had broken it. The poor thing clattered on its single hinge. It took all of Vianne’s fortitude to act as if it hadn’t happened. She marched up to the house, opened the door, and immediately turned on the kitchen light. “Sophie,” she said, unpinning her hat. “Would you please set the table?”

Vianne ignored her daughter’s grumbling—it was to be expected. In only a few days, Isabelle had taught her niece to challenge authority.

Vianne lit the stove and started cooking. When a creamy potato and lardon soup was simmering, she began to clean up. Of course Isabelle was nowhere around to help. Sighing, she filled the sink with water to wash dishes. She was so intent on her task that it took her a moment to notice that someone was knocking on the front door. Patting her hair, she walked into the living room, where she found Isabelle rising from the divan, a book in her hands. Reading while Vianne cooked and cleaned. Naturally.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Isabelle asked.

Vianne shook her head.

“Maybe we shouldn’t answer,” Isabelle said. “Pretend we’re not here.”

“It’s most likely Rachel.”

There was another knock at the door.

Slowly, the doorknob turned, and the door creaked open.

Yes. Of course it was Rachel. Who else would—

A German soldier stepped into her home.

“Oh, my pardons,” the man said in terrible French. He removed his military hat, tucked it in his armpit, and smiled. He was a good-looking man—tall and broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with pale skin and light gray eyes. Vianne guessed he was roughly her age. His field uniform was precisely pressed and looked brand new. An iron cross decorated his stand-up collar. Binoculars hung from a strap around his neck and a chunky leather utility belt cinched his waist. Behind him, through the branches of the orchard, she saw his motorcycle parked on the side of the road. A sidecar was attached to it, mounted with machine guns.

“Mademoiselle,” he said to Vianne, giving her a swift nod as he clicked his boots together.

“Madame,” she corrected him, wishing she sounded haughty and in control, but even to her own ears she sounded scared. “Madame Mauriac.”

“I am Hauptmann—Captain—Wolfgang Beck.” He handed her a piece of paper. “My French is not so good. You will excuse my ineptitude, please.” When he smiled, deep dimples formed in his cheeks.

She took the paper and frowned down at it. “I don’t read German.”