The Nightingale

“What do you want?” Isabelle demanded, coming to stand by Vianne.

“Your home is most beautiful and very close to the airfield. I noticed it upon our arrival. How many bedrooms have you?”

“Why?” Isabelle said at the same time Vianne said, “Three.”

“I will billet here,” the captain said in his bad French.

“Billet?” Vianne said. “You mean … to stay?”

“Oui, Madame.”

“Billet? You? A man? A Nazi? No. No.” Isabelle shook her head. “No.”

The captain’s smile neither faded nor fell. “You were to town,” he said, looking at Isabelle. “I saw you when we arrived.”

“You noticed me?”

He smiled. “I am sure every red-blooded man in my regiment noticed you.”

“Funny you would mention blood,” Isabelle said.

Vianne elbowed her sister. “I am sorry, Captain. My young sister is obstinate on occasion. But I am married, you see, and my husband is at the front, and there is my sister and my daughter here, so you must see how inappropriate it would be to have you here.”

“Ah, so you would rather leave the house to me. How difficult that must be for you.”

“Leave?” Vianne said.

“I believe you aren’t understanding the captain,” Isabelle said, not taking her gaze from him. “He’s moving into your home, taking it over, really, and that piece of paper is a requisition order that makes it possible. And Pétain’s armistice, of course. We can either make room for him or abandon a home that has been in our family for generations.”

He looked uncomfortable. “This, I’m afraid, is the situation. Many of your fellow villagers are facing the same dilemma, I fear.”

“If we leave, will we get our home back?” Isabelle asked.

“I would not think so, Madame.”

Vianne dared to take a step toward him. Perhaps she could reason with him. “My husband will be home any day now, I imagine. Perhaps you could wait until he is here?”

“I am not the general, alas. I am simply a captain in the Wehrmacht. I follow orders, Madame, I do not give them. And I am ordered to billet here. But I assure you that I am a gentleman.”

“We will leave,” Isabelle said.

“Leave?” Vianne said to her sister in disbelief. “This is my home.” To the captain she said, “I can count on you to be a gentleman?”

“Of course.”

Vianne looked at Isabelle, who shook her head slowly.

Vianne knew there was no real choice. She had to keep Sophie safe until Antoine came home, and then he would handle this unpleasantness. Surely he would be home soon, now that the armistice had been signed. “There is a small bedroom downstairs. You’ll be comfortable there.”

The captain nodded. “Merci, Madame. I will get my things.”

*

As soon as the door closed behind the captain, Isabelle said, “Are you mad? We can’t live with a Nazi.”

“He said he’s in the Wehrmacht. Is that the same thing?”

“I’m hardly interested in their chain of command. You haven’t seen what they’re willing to do to us, Vianne. I have. We’ll leave. Go next door, to Rachel’s. We could live with her.”

“Rachel’s house is too small for all of us, and I am not going to abandon my home to the Germans.”

To that, Isabelle had no answer.

Vianne felt anxiety turn to an itch along her throat. An old nervous habit returned. “You go if you must, but I am waiting for Antoine. We have surrendered, so he’ll be home soon.”

“Vianne, please—”

The front door rattled hard. Another knock.

Vianne walked dully forward. With a shaking hand, she reached for the knob and opened the door.

Captain Beck stood there, holding his military hat in one hand and a small leather valise in the other. He said, “Hello again, Madame,” as if he’d been gone for some time.

Vianne scratched at her neck, feeling acutely vulnerable beneath this man’s gaze. She backed away quickly, saying, “This way, Herr Captain.”

As she turned, she saw the living room that had been decorated by three generations of her family’s women. Golden stucco walls, the color of freshly baked brioche, gray stone floors covered by ancient Aubusson rugs, heavily carved wooden furniture upholstered in mohair and tapestry fabric, lamps made of porcelain, curtains of gold and red toile, antiques and treasures left over from the years when the Rossignols had been wealthy tradesmen. Until recently there had been artwork on the walls. Now only the unimportant pieces remained. Isabelle had hidden the good ones.