The Nightingale

Vianne walked past all of it to the small guest bedroom tucked beneath the stairs. At the closed door, to the left of the bathroom that had been added in the early twenties, she paused. She could hear him breathing behind her.

She opened the door to reveal a narrow room with a large window, bracketed by blue-gray curtains that pooled on the wooden floor. A painted chest of drawers supported a blue pitcher and ewer. In the corner was an aged oak armoire with mirrored doors. By the double bed sat a nightstand; on it, an antique ormolu clock. Isabelle’s clothes lay everywhere, as if she were packing for an extended holiday. Vianne picked them up quickly, and the valise, too. When she finished, she turned.

His suitcase plunked to the floor. She looked at him, compelled by simple politeness to offer a tense smile.

“You needn’t worry, Madame,” he said. “We have been admonished to act as gentlemen. My mother would demand the same, and, in truth, she scares me more than my general.” It was such an ordinary remark that Vianne was taken aback.

She had no idea how to respond to this stranger who dressed like the enemy and looked like a young man she might have met at church. And what was the price for saying the wrong thing?

He remained where he was, a respectful distance from her. “I apologize for any inconvenience, Madame.”

“My husband will be home soon.”

“We all hope to be home soon.”

Another unnerving comment. Vianne nodded politely and left him alone in the room, closing the door behind her.

“Tell me he’s not staying,” Isabelle said, rushing at her.

“He says he is,” Vianne said tiredly, pushing back the hair from her eyes. She realized just now that she was trembling. “I know how you feel about these Nazis. Just make sure he doesn’t know it. I won’t let you put Sophie at risk with your childish rebellion.”

“Childish rebellion! Are you—”

The guest room door opened, silencing Isabelle.

Captain Beck strode confidently toward them, smiling broadly. Then he saw the radio in the room and he paused. “Do not worry, ladies. I am most pleased to deliver your radio to the Kommandant.”

“Really?” Isabelle said. “You consider this a kindness?”

Vianne felt a tightening in her chest. There was a storm brewing in Isabelle. Her sister’s cheeks had gone pale, her lips were drawn in a thin, colorless line, her eyes were narrowed. She was glaring at the German as if she could kill him with a look.

“Of course.” He smiled, looking a little confused. The sudden silence seemed to unnerve him. Suddenly he said, “You have beautiful hair, M’mselle.” At Isabelle’s frown, he said, “This is an appropriate compliment, yes?”

“Do you think so?” Isabelle said, her voice low.

“Quite lovely.” Beck smiled.

Isabelle walked into the kitchen and came back with a pair of boning shears.

His smile faded. “Am I misunderstood?”

Vianne said, “Isabelle, don’t,” just as Isabelle gathered up her thick blond hair and fisted it. Staring grimly at Captain Beck’s handsome face, she hacked off her hair and handed the long blond tail to him. “It must be verboten for us to have anything beautiful, is it not, Captain Beck?”

Vianne gasped. “Please, sir. Ignore her. Isabelle is a silly, prideful girl.”

“No,” Beck said. “She is angry. And angry people make mistakes in war and die.”

“So do conquering soldiers,” Isabelle snapped.

Beck laughed at her.

Isabelle made a sound that was practically a snarl and pivoted on her heel. She marched up the stairs and slammed the door shut so hard the house shook.

*

“You will want to speak to her now, I warrant,” Beck said. He looked at Vianne in a way that made it seem as if they understood each other. “Such … theatrics in the wrong place could be most dangerous.”

Vianne left him standing in her living room and went upstairs. She found Isabelle sitting on Sophie’s bed, so angry she was shaking.

Scratches marred her cheeks and throat; a reminder of what she’d seen and survived. And now her hair was hacked off, the ends uneven.

Vianne tossed Isabelle’s belongings onto the unmade bed and closed the door behind her. “What in the name of all that’s holy were you thinking?”

“I could kill him in his sleep, just slit his throat.”

“And do you think they would not come looking for a captain who had orders to billet here? Mon Dieu, Isabelle.” She took a deep breath to calm her racing nerves. “I know there are problems between us, Isabelle. I know I treated you badly as a child—I was too young and scared to help you—and Papa treated you worse. But this is not about us now, and you can’t be the girl who acts impetuously anymore. It is about my daughter now. Your niece. We must protect her.”

“But—”

“France has surrendered, Isabelle. Certainly this fact has not escaped you.”

“Didn’t you hear Général de Gaulle? He said—”

“And who is this Général de Gaulle? Why should we listen to him? Maréchal Pétain is a war hero and our leader. We have to trust our government.”