The Nightingale

“Yes,” Vianne said. Everyone knew about how the belt-tightening felt, especially to children.

“You’re not alone, and you’re not the one in charge,” Mother said gently. “Ask for help when you need it, and give help when you can. I think that is how we serve God—and each other and ourselves—in times as dark as these.”

*

You’re not the one in charge.

Vianne contemplated Mother’s words all the way home.

She had always taken great comfort in her faith. When Maman had first begun to cough, and then when that coughing deepened into a hacking shudder that left sprays of blood on handkerchiefs, Vianne had prayed to God for all that she needed. Help. Guidance. A way to cheat the death that had come to call. At fourteen she’d promised God anything—everything—if He would just spare her maman’s life. With her prayers unanswered, she returned to God and prayed for the strength to deal with the aftermath—her loneliness, Papa’s bleak, angry silences and drunken rages, Isabelle’s wailing neediness.

Time and again, she had returned to God, pleading for help, promising her faith. She wanted to believe that she was neither alone nor in charge, but rather that her life was unfolding according to His plan, even if she couldn’t see it.

Now, though, such hope felt as slight and bendable as tin.

She was alone and there was no one else in charge, no one but the Nazis.

She had made a terrible, grievous mistake. She couldn’t take it back, however much she might hope for such a chance; she couldn’t undo it, but a good woman would accept responsibility—and blame—and apologize. Whatever else she was or wasn’t, whatever her failings, she intended to be a good woman.

And so she knew what she needed to do.

She knew it, and still when she came to the gate at Rachel’s cottage, she found herself unable to move. Her feet felt heavy, her heart even more so.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. There was a shuffling of feet within and then the door opened. Rachel held her sleeping son in one arm and had a pair of dungarees slung over the other. “Vianne,” she said, smiling. “Come in.”

Vianne almost gave in to cowardice. Oh, Rachel, I just stopped by to say hello. Instead, she took a deep breath and followed her friend into the house. She took her usual place in the comfortable upholstered chair tucked in close to the blazing fire.

“Take Ari, I’ll make us coffee.”

Vianne reached for the sleeping baby and took him in her arms. He snuggled close and she stroked his back and kissed the back of his head.

“We heard that some care packages were being delivered to prisoner of war camps by the Red Cross,” Rachel said a moment later, coming into the room carrying two cups of coffee. She set one down on the table next to Vianne. “Where are the girls?”

“At my house, with Isabelle. Probably learning how to shoot a gun.”

Rachel laughed. “There are worse skills to have.” She pulled the dungarees from her shoulder and tossed them onto a straw basket with the rest of her sewing. Then she sat down across from Vianne.

Vianne breathed in deeply of the sweet scent that was pure baby. When she looked up, Rachel was staring at her.

“Is it one of those days?” she asked quietly.

Vianne gave an unsteady smile. Rachel knew how much Vianne sometimes mourned her lost babies and how deeply she’d prayed for more children. It had been difficult between them—not a lot, but a little—when Rachel had gotten pregnant with Ari. There was joy for Rachel … and a thread of envy. “No,” she said. She lifted her chin slowly, looked her best friend in the eyes. “I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

Vianne drew in a breath. “Do you remember the day we wrote the postcards? And Captain Beck was waiting for me when we got home?”

“Oui. I offered to come in with you.”

“I wish you had, although I don’t suppose it would have made a difference. He just would have waited until you left.”

Rachel started to rise. “Did he—”

“No, no,” she said quickly. “Not that. He was working at the dining room table that day, writing something when I returned. He … asked me for a list of names. He wanted to know which of the teachers at the school were Jewish or communists.” She paused. “He asked about homosexuals and Freemasons, too, as if people talk about such things.”

“You told him you didn’t know.”

Shame made Vianne look away, but only for a second. She forced herself to say, “I gave him your name, Rachel. Along with the others.”

Rachel went very still; the color drained from her face, making her dark eyes stand out. “And they fired us.”

Vianne swallowed hard, nodded.

Rachel got to her feet and walked past Vianne without stopping, ignoring her pleading please, Rachel, pulling away so she couldn’t be touched. She went into her bedroom and slammed the door shut.