The Nightingale

Vianne began finely chopping the mutton. She added a precious egg to the mix, and stale bread, then seasoned it with salt and pepper. She was forming the mixture into patties when she heard a motorcycle putt-puttering toward the house. She went to the front door and opened it just enough to peer out.

Captain Beck’s head and shoulders could be seen above the stone wall as he dismounted his motorcycle. Moments later, a green military lorry pulled up behind him and parked. Three other German soldiers appeared in her yard. The men talked among themselves and then gathered at the rose-covered stone wall her great-great-grandfather had built. One of the soldiers lifted a sledgehammer and brought it down hard on the wall, which shattered. Stones broke into pieces, a skein of roses fell, their pink petals scattering across the grass.

Vianne rushed out into her yard. “Herr Captain!”

The sledgehammer came down again. Craaaack.

“Madame,” Beck said, looking unhappy. It bothered Vianne that she knew him well enough to notice his state of mind. “We have orders to tear down all the walls along this road.”

As one soldier demolished the wall, two others came toward the front door, laughing at some joke between them. Without asking permission, they walked past her and went into her house.

“My condolences,” Beck said, stepping over the rubble on his way to her. “I know you love the roses. And—most sorrowfully—my men will be fulfilling a requisition order from your house.”

“A requisition?”

The soldiers came out of the house; one carried the oil painting that had been over the mantel and the other had the overstuffed chair from the salon.

“That was my grandmère’s favorite chair,” Vianne said quietly.

“I’m sorry,” Beck said. “I was unable to stop this.”

“What in the world…”

Vianne didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned when Isabelle yanked her bike over the pile of stone and leaned it against the tree. Already there was no barrier between her property and the road anymore.

Isabelle looked beautiful, even with her face pink from the exertion of riding her bicycle and shiny with perspiration. Glossy blond waves framed her face. Her faded red dress clung to her body in all the right places.

The soldiers stopped to stare at her, the rolled-up Aubusson rug from the living room slung between them.

Beck removed his military cap. He said something to the soldiers who were carrying the rolled-up carpet, and they hurried toward the lorry.

“You’ve torn down our wall?” Isabelle said.

“The Sturmbannführer wants to be able to see all houses from the road. Somebody is distributing anti-German propaganda. We will find and arrest him.”

“You think harmless pieces of paper are worth all of this?” Isabelle asked.

“They are far from harmless, Mademoiselle. They encourage terrorism.”

“Terrorism must be avoided,” Isabelle said, crossing her arms.

Vianne couldn’t look away from Isabelle. There was something going on. Her sister seemed to be drawing her emotions back, going still, like a cat preparing to pounce. “Herr Captain,” Isabelle said after a while.

“Oui, M’mselle?”

Soldiers walked past them, carrying out the breakfast table.

Isabelle let them pass and then walked to the captain. “My papa is ill.”

“He is?” Vianne said. “Why don’t I know this? What’s wrong with him?”

Isabelle ignored Vianne. “He has asked that I come to Paris to nurse him. But…”

“He wants you to nurse him?” Vianne said, incredulous.

Beck said, “You need a travel pass to leave, M’mselle. You know this.”

“I know this.” Isabelle seemed to barely breathe. “I … thought perhaps you would procure one for me. You are a family man. Certainly you understand how important it is to answer a father’s call?”

Strangely, as Isabelle spoke, the captain turned slightly to look at Vianne, as if she were the one who mattered.

“I could get you a pass, oui,” the captain said. “For a family emergency such as this.”

“I am grateful,” Isabelle said.

Vianne was stunned. Did Beck not see how her sister was manipulating him—and why had he looked at Vianne when making his decision?

As soon as Isabelle got what she wanted, she returned to her bicycle. She took hold of the handlebars and walked it toward the barn. The rubber wheels bumped and thumped on the uneven ground.

Vianne rushed after her. “Papa’s ill?” she said when she caught up with her sister.

“Papa’s fine.”

“You lied? Why?”

Isabelle’s pause was slight but perceptible. “I suppose there is no reason to lie. It’s all out in the open now. I have been sneaking out on Friday mornings to meet Henri and now he has asked me to go to Paris with him. He has a lovely little pied-à-terre in the Montmarte, apparently.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m in love, I think. A little. Maybe.”

“You are going to cross Nazi-occupied France to spend a few nights in Paris in the bed of a man whom you might love. A little.”

“I know,” Isabelle said. “It’s so romantic.”

“You must be feverish. Perhaps you have a brain sickness of some kind.” She put her hands on her hips and made a huff of disapproval.

“If love is a disease, I suppose I’m infected.”