The Nightingale

*

Vianne wrestled with her conscience for hours. She’d continued teaching for much of the day, although she couldn’t remember how. All that stuck in her mind was the look Rachel had given her as she walked out of the school with the other dismissed teachers. Finally, at noon, although they were already shorthanded at school, Vianne had asked another teacher to take over her classroom.

Now, she stood at the edge of the town square.

All the way here, she had planned what she would say, but when she saw the Nazi flag flying above the h?tel de ville, her resolve faltered. Everywhere she looked there were German soldiers, walking in pairs, or riding gorgeous, well-fed horses, or darting up the streets in shiny black Citr?ens. Across the square, a Nazi blew his whistle and used his rifle to force an old man to his knees.

Go, Vianne.

She walked up the stone steps to the closed oak doors, where a fresh-faced young guard stopped her and demanded to know her business.

“I am here to see Captain Beck,” she said.

“Ah.” The guard opened the door for her and pointed up the wide stone staircase, making the number two with his fingers.

Vianne stepped into the main room of the town hall. It was crowded with men in uniforms. She tried not to make eye contact with anyone as she hurried across the lobby to the stairs, which she ascended under the watchful eyes of the Führer, whose portrait took up much of the wall.

On the second floor, she found a man in uniform and she said to him, “Captain Beck, s’il vous pla?t?”

“Oui, Madame.” He showed her to a door at the end of the hall and rapped smartly upon it. At a response from within, he opened the door for her.

Beck was seated behind an ornate black and gold desk—obviously taken from one of the grand homes in the area. Behind him a portrait of Hitler and a collection of maps were affixed to the walls. On his desk was a typewriter and a roneo machine. In the corner stood a pile of confiscated radios, but worst of all was the food. There were boxes and boxes of food, heaps of cured meats and wheels of cheese stacked against the back wall.

“Madame Mauriac,” he said, rising quickly. “What a most pleasant surprise.” He came toward her. “What may I do for you?”

“It’s about the teachers you fired at the school.”

“Not I, Madame.”

Vianne glanced at the open door behind them and took a step toward him, lowering her voice to say, “You told me the list of names was clerical in nature.”

“I am sorry. Truly. This is what I was told.”

“We need them at the school.”

“You being here, it is … dangerous perhaps.” He closed the small distance between them. “You do not want to draw attention to yourself, Madame Mauriac. Not here. There is a man…” He glanced at the door and stopped speaking. “Go, Madame.”

“I wish you hadn’t asked me.”

“As do I, Madame.” He gave her an understanding look. “Now, go. Please. You should not be here.”

Vianne turned away from Captain Beck—and all that food and the picture of the Führer—and left his office. On her way down the stairs, she saw how the soldiers observed her, smiling to one another, no doubt joking about another Frenchwoman courting a dashing German soldier who had just broken her heart. But it wasn’t until she stepped back out into the sunshine that she realized fully her mistake.

Several women were in the square, or near it, and they saw her step out of the Nazis’ lair.

One of the women was Isabelle.

Vianne hurried down the steps, toward Hélène Ruelle, the baker’s wife, who was delivering bread to the Kommandantur.

“Socializing, Madame Mauriac?” Hélène said archly as Vianne rushed past her.

Isabelle was practically running across the square toward her. With a defeated sigh, Vianne came to a standstill, waiting for her sister to reach her.

“What were you doing in there?” Isabelle demanded, her voice too loud, or maybe that was only to Vianne’s ears.

“They fired the teachers today. No. Not all of them, just the Jews and the Freemasons and the communists.” The memory welled up in her, made her feel sick. She remembered the quiet hallway and the confusion among the teachers who remained. No one knew what to do, how to defy the Nazis.

“Just them, huh?” Isabelle said, her face tightening.

“I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I meant to clarify. They didn’t fire all the teachers.” Even to her own ears it sounded a feeble excuse, so she shut up.

“And this says nothing to explain your presence at their headquarters.”

“I … thought Captain Beck could help us. Help Rachel.”

“You went to Beck for a favor?”

“I had to.”

“Frenchwomen do not ask Nazis for help, Vianne. Mon Dieu, you must know this.”

“I know,” Vianne said defiantly. “But…”

“But what?”