The Nightingale

He moved closer, so close she could feel the warmth of his body.

She had never been alone with him before, nor so near him. She saw for the first time that his eyes were neither brown nor green but rather a hazel gray that made her think of fog in a deep forest. She saw a small scar at his brow that had either been a terrible gash at one time or poorly stitched and it made her wonder all at once what kind of life he’d led that had brought him here, and to communism. He was older than she by at least a decade, although to be honest, he seemed even older sometimes, as if perhaps he’d suffered a great loss.

“You’ll need to paint it,” he said.

“I don’t have any paint.”

“I do.”

“Would you—”

“A kiss,” he said.

“A kiss?” She repeated it to stall for time. This was the sort of thing that she’d taken for granted before the war. Men desired her; they always had. She wanted that back, wanted to flirt with Henri and be flirted with, and yet the very idea of it felt sad and a little lost, as if perhaps kisses didn’t mean much anymore and flirtation even less.

“One kiss and I’ll paint your bicycle tonight and you can pick it up tomorrow.”

She stepped toward him and tilted her face up to his.

They came together easily, even with all the coats and layers of newsprint and wool between them. He took her in his arms and kissed her. For a beautiful second, she was Isabelle Rossignol again, the passionate girl whom men desired.

When it ended and he drew back, she felt … deflated. Sad.

She should say something, make a joke, or perhaps pretend that she felt more than she did. That’s what she would have done before, when kisses had meant more, or maybe less.

“There’s someone else,” Henri said, studying her intently.

“No there isn’t.”

Henri touched her cheek gently. “You’re lying.”

Isabelle thought of all that Henri had given her. He was the one who’d brought her into the Free French network and given her a chance; he was the one who believed in her. And yet when he kissed her, she thought of Ga?tan. “He didn’t want me,” she said. It was the first time she’d told anyone the truth. The admission surprised her.

“If things were different, I’d make you forget him.”

“And I’d let you try.”

She saw the way he smiled at that, saw the sorrow in it. “Blue,” he said after a pause.

“Blue?”

“It’s the paint color I have.”

Isabelle smiled. “How fitting.”

Later that day, as she stood in one line after another for too little food, and then as she gathered wood from the forest and carried it home, she thought about that kiss.

What she thought, over and over again, was if only.





THIRTEEN

On a beautiful day in late April 1941, Isabelle lay stretched out on a woolen blanket in the field across from the house. The sweet smell of ripening hay filled her nostrils. When she closed her eyes, she could almost forget that the engines in the distance were German lorries taking soldiers—and France’s produce—to the train station at Tours. After the disastrous winter, she appreciated how sunshine on her face lulled her into a drowsy state.

“There you are.”

Isabelle sighed and sat up.

Vianne wore a faded blue gingham day dress that had been grayed by harsh homemade soap. Hunger had whittled her down over the winter, sharpened her cheekbones and deepened the hollow at the base of her throat. An old scarf turbaned her head, hiding hair that had lost its shine and curl.

“This came for you.” Vianne held out a piece of paper. “It was delivered. By a man. For you,” she said, as if that fact bore repeating.

Isabelle clambered awkwardly to her feet and snatched the paper from Vianne’s grasp. On it, in scrawled handwriting, was: The curtains are open. She reached down for her blanket and began folding it up. What did it mean? They’d never summoned her before. Something important must be happening.

“Isabelle? Would you care to explain?”

“No.”

“It was Henri Navarre. The innkeeper’s son. I didn’t think you knew him.”

Isabelle ripped the note into tiny pieces and let it fall away.

“He is a communist, you know,” Vianne said in a whisper.

“I need to go.”

Vianne grabbed her wrist. “You cannot have been sneaking out all winter to see a communist. You know what the Nazis think of them. It’s dangerous to even be seen with this man.”

“You think I care what the Nazis think?” Isabelle said, wrenching free. She ran barefooted across the field. At home, she grabbed some shoes and climbed aboard her bicycle. With an au revoir! to a stunned-looking Vianne, Isabelle was off, pedaling down the dirt road.

In town, she coasted past the abandoned hat shop—sure enough, the curtains were open—and veered into the cobblestoned alley and came to a stop.

She leaned her bicycle against the rough limestone wall beside her and rapped four times. It didn’t occur to her until the final knock that it might be a trap. The idea, when it came, made her draw in a sharp breath and glance left and right, but it was too late now.