The Nightingale

The queue moved forward. Vianne stepped to the front and found herself staring at a gray-haired woman with skin the color and texture of oatmeal.

Vianne frowned. “Where is Madame Fournier?” she asked, offering her ration ticket for today’s meat. She hoped there was still some to be had.

“No Jews allowed,” the woman said. “We have a little smoked pigeon left.”

“But this is the Fourniers’ shop.”

“Not anymore. It’s mine now. You want the pigeon or not?”

Vianne took the small tin of smoked pigeon and dropped it in her willow basket. Saying nothing, she led Sophie outside. On the opposite corner, a German sentry stood guard in front of the bank, reminding the French people that the bank had been seized by the Germans.

“Maman,” Sophie whined. “It’s wrong to—”

“Hush.” Vianne grabbed Sophie’s hand. As they walked out of town and along the dirt road home, Sophie made her displeasure known. She huffed and sighed and grumbled.

Vianne ignored her.

When they reached the broken gate to Le Jardin, Sophie yanked free and spun to face Vianne. “How can they just take the butcher’s shop? Tante Isabelle would do something. You’re just afraid!”

“And what should I do? Storm into the square and demand that Madame Fournier get her shop back? And what would they do to me for that? You’ve seen the posters in town.” She lowered her voice. “They’re executing French people, Sophie. Executing them.”

“But—”

“No buts. These are dangerous times, Sophie. You need to understand that.”

Sophie’s eyes glazed with tears. “I wish Papa were here…”

Vianne pulled her daughter into her arms and held her tightly. “Me, too.”

They held each other for a long time, and then slowly separated. “We are going to make pickles today, how about that?”

“Oh. Fun.”

Vianne couldn’t disagree. “Why don’t you go pick cucumbers? I’ll get the vinegar started.”

Vianne watched her daughter run ahead, dodging through the heavily laden apple trees toward the garden. The moment she disappeared, Vianne’s worry returned. What would she do without money? The garden was producing well, so there would be fruit and vegetables, but what about the coming winter? How could Sophie stay healthy without meat or milk or cheese? How would they get new shoes? She was shaking as she made her way into the hot, blacked-out house. In the kitchen, she clutched the counter’s edge and bowed her head.

“Madame?”

She turned so fast she almost tripped over her own feet.

He was in the living room, sitting on the divan, with an oil lamp lit beside him, reading a book.

“Captain Beck.” She said his name quietly. She moved toward him, her shaking hands clasped together. “Your motorcycle is not out front.”

“It was such a beautiful day. I decided to walk from town.” He rose. She saw that he had recently had a haircut, and that he’d nicked himself shaving this morning. A tiny red cut marred his pale cheek. “You look upset. Perhaps it is because you have not been sleeping well since your sister left.”

She looked at him in surprise.

“I hear you walking around in the dark.”

“You’re awake, too,” she said stupidly.

“I often cannot sleep, either. I think of my wife and children. My son is so young. I wonder if he will know me at all.”

“I think the same about Antoine,” she said, surprising herself with the admission. She knew she shouldn’t be so open with this man—the enemy—but just now she was too tired and scared to be strong.

Beck stared down at her, and in his eyes, she saw the loss they shared. Both of them were a long way from the people they loved, and lonelier for it.

“Well. I mean not to intrude on your day, of course, but I have some news for you. With much research, I have discovered that your husband is in an Oflag in Germany. A friend of mine is a guard there. Your husband is an officer. Did you know this? No doubt he was valiant on the battlefield.”

“You found Antoine? He’s alive?”

He held out a crumpled, stained envelope. “Here is a letter he has written to you. And now you may send him care packages, which I believe would cheer him most immeasurably.”

“Oh … my.” She felt her legs weaken.

He grasped her, steadied her, and led her over to the divan. As she slumped to the seat, she felt tears welling in her eyes. “Such a kind thing to do,” she whispered, taking the letter from him, pressing it to her chest.

“My friend delivered the letter to me. From now on, my apologies, you will correspond on the postcards only.”

He smiled at her and she had the strangest feeling that he knew about the lengthy letters she concocted in her head at night.

“Merci,” she said, wishing it weren’t such a small word.

“Au revoir, Madame,” he said, then turned on his heel and left her alone.

The crumpled, dirty letter shook in her grasp; the letters of her name blurred and danced as she opened it.

Vianne, my beloved,