The Nightingale

“Pardon me?”

She flicked on the light switch.

He towered over her; she saw that now. He was broad-shouldered and skinny at the same time, narrow-faced, with a nose that looked like it had been broken a time or two. His hair was so short it looked like fuzz. “Your flight suit. Take it off. Quickly.”

What had she been thinking to do this? Her father would come home and find the airman and then turn them both in to the Germans.

Where would she hide his flight suit? And those boots were a dead giveaway.

He bent forward and stepped out of his flight suit.

She had never seen a grown man in his undershorts and T-shirt before. She felt her face flush.

“No need to blush, miss,” he said, grinning as if this were ordinary.

She yanked his suit into her arms and held out her hand for his identification tags. He handed them over; two small discs worn around his neck. Both contained the same information. Lieutenant Torrance MacLeish. His blood group and religion and number.

“Follow me. Quietly. What’s the word … on the edges of your toes.”

“Tiptoes,” he whispered.

She led him to her bedroom. There—slowly, gently—she pushed the armoire out of the way and revealed the secret room.

A row of glassy doll eyes stared back at her.

“That’s creepy, miss,” he said. “And it’s a small space for a big man.”

“Get in. Stay quiet. Any untoward sound could get us searched. Madame Leclerc next door is curious and could be a collaborator, you understand? Also, my father will be home soon. He works for the German high command.”

“Blimey.”

She had no idea what that meant, and she was sweating so profusely her clothes were starting to stick to her chest. What had she been thinking to offer this man help?

“What if I have to … you know?” he asked.

“Hold it.” She pushed him into the room, giving him a pillow and blanket from her bed. “I’ll come back when I can. Quiet, oui?”

He nodded. “Thank you.”

She couldn’t help shaking her head. “I’m a fool. A fool.” She shut the door on him and shoved the armoire back into place, not quite where it went, but good enough for now. She had to get rid of his flight suit and tags before her father came home.

She moved through the apartment on bare feet, as quietly as possible. She had no idea if the people downstairs would notice the sound of the armoire being moved or too many people moving about up here. Better safe than sorry. She jammed the flight suit in an old Samaritaine department store bag and crushed it to her chest.

Leaving the apartment felt dangerous suddenly. So did staying.

She crept past the Leclerc apartment and then rushed down the stairs.

Outside, she drew in a gulping breath.

Now what? She couldn’t throw this just anywhere. She didn’t want someone else to get in trouble …

For the first time, she was grateful for the city’s blackout conditions. She slipped into the darkness on the sidewalk and all but disappeared. There were few Parisians out this close to curfew and the Germans were too busy drinking French wine to glance outside.

She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm down. To think. She was probably moments away from curfew—although that was hardly her biggest problem. Papa would be home soon.

The river.

She was only a few blocks away, and there were trees along the quay.

She found a smaller, barricaded side street and made her way to the river, past the row of military lorries parked along the street.

She had never moved so slowly in her life. One step—one breath—at a time. The last fifty feet between her and the banks of the Seine seemed to grow and expand with each step she took, and then again as she descended the stairs to the water, but at last she was there, standing beside the river. She heard boat lines creaking in the darkness, waves slapping their wooden hulls. Once again she thought she heard footsteps behind her. When she stilled, so did they. She waited for someone to come up behind her, for a voice demanding her papers.

Nothing. She was imagining it.

One minute passed. Then another.

She threw the bag into the black water and then hurled the identification tags in after it. The dark, swirling water swallowed the evidence instantly.

Still, she felt shaky as she climbed the steps and crossed the street and headed for home.

At her apartment door, she paused, finger-combing her sweat-dampened hair and pulling the damp cotton blouse from her breasts.

The one light was on. The chandelier. Her father sat hunched over the dining room table with paperwork spread out before him. He appeared haggard and too thin. She wondered suddenly how much he had been eating lately. In the weeks she’d been home, she had not once seen him have a meal. They ate—like they did everything else—separately. She had assumed that he ate German scraps at the high command. Now she wondered.