The Nightingale

On a particularly cold morning in late November, Vianne woke with tears on her cheeks. She had been dreaming about Antoine again.

With a sigh, she eased out of bed, taking care not to waken Sophie. Vianne had slept fully dressed, wearing a woolen vest, a long-sleeved sweater, woolen stockings, a pair of flannel pants (Antoine’s, cut down to fit her), and a knit cap and mittens. It wasn’t even Christmas and already layering had become de rigueur. She added a cardigan and still she was cold.

She burrowed her mittened hands into the slit at the foot of the mattress and withdrew the leather pouch Antoine had left for her. Not much money remained in it. Soon, they would have to live on her teaching salary alone.

She returned the money (counting it had become an obsession since the weather turned cold) and went downstairs.

There was never enough of anything anymore. The pipes froze at night and so there was no water until midday. Vianne had taken to leaving buckets full of water positioned near the stove and fireplaces for washing. Gas and electricity were scarce, as was money to pay for them, so she was miserly with both. The flames on her stove were so low it barely boiled water. They rarely turned on the lights.

She made a fire and then wrapped herself in a heavy eiderdown and sat on the divan. Beside her was a bag of yarn that she’d collected by pulling apart one of her old sweaters. She was making Sophie a scarf for Christmas, and these early-morning hours were the only time she could find.

With only the creaking of the house for company, she focused on the pale blue yarn and the way the knitting needles dove in and out of the soft strands, creating every moment something that hadn’t existed before. It calmed her nerves, this once-ordinary morning ritual. If she loosed her thoughts, she might remember her mother sitting beside her, teaching her, saying, “Knit one, purl two, that’s right … beautiful…”

Or Antoine, coming down the stairs in his stockinged feet, smiling, asking her what she was making for him …

Antoine.

The front door opened slowly, bringing a burst of ice-cold air and a flurry of leaves. Isabelle came in, wearing Antoine’s old wool coat and knee-high boots and a scarf that coiled around her head and neck, obscuring all but her eyes. She saw Vianne and came to a sudden stop. “Oh. You’re up.” She unwound the scarf and hung up her coat. There was no mistaking the guilty look on her face. “I was out checking on the chickens.”

Vianne’s hands stilled; the needles paused. “You might as well tell me who he is, this boy you keep sneaking out to meet.”

“Who would meet a boy in this cold?” Isabelle went to Vianne, pulling her to her feet, leading her to the fire.

At the sudden warmth, Vianne shivered. She hadn’t realized how cold she’d been. “You,” she said, surprised that it made her smile. “You would sneak out in the cold to meet a boy.”

“He would have to be some boy. Clark Gable, maybe.”

Sophie rushed into the room, snuggling up to Vianne. “This feels good,” she said, holding out her hands.

For a beautiful, tender moment, Vianne forgot her worries, and then Isabelle said, “Well, I’d best go. I need to be first in the butcher’s queue.”

“You need to eat something before you go,” Vianne said.

“Give mine to Sophie,” Isabelle answered, pulling the coat back on and rewinding the scarf around her head.

Vianne walked her sister to the door, watched her slip out into the darkness, then returned to the kitchen and lit an oil lamp and went down to the cellar pantry, where rows of shelving ran along the stone wall. Two years ago this pantry had been full to overflowing with hams smoked in ash and jars full of duck fat set beside coils of sausage. Bottles of aged champagne vinegar, tins of sardines, jars of jam.

Now, they were nearly to the end of the chicory coffee. The last of the sugar was a sparkly white residue in the glass container, and the flour was more precious than gold. Thank God the garden had produced a good crop of vegetables in spite of the war refugees’ rampage. She had canned and preserved every single fruit and vegetable, no matter how undersized.

She reached for a piece of wholemeal bread that was about to go bad. As breakfast for growing girls went, a boiled egg and a piece of toast wasn’t much, but it could be worse.

“I want more,” Sophie said when she’d finished.

“I can’t,” Vianne said.

“The Germans are taking all of our food,” Sophie said just as Beck emerged from his room, dressed in his gray-green uniform.

“Sophie,” Vianne said sharply.

“Well, it is true, young lady, that we German soldiers are taking much of the food France produces, but men who are fighting need to eat, do they not?”

Sophie frowned up at him. “Doesn’t everyone need to eat?”

“Oui, M’mselle. And we Germans do not only take, we give back to our friends.” He reached into the pocket of his uniform and drew out a chocolate bar.