The Nightingale

She waited a moment more, for her heartbeat to slow down and her emotions to stabilize, then she headed for home. She had barely released the lock on her front door when she felt herself being yanked inside. The door slammed shut behind her.

“Where in the hell have you been?”

Her father’s alcoholic breath washed over her, its sweetness a cloak over something dark; bitter. As if he’d been chewing aspirin. She tried to pull free but he held her so close it was almost an embrace, his grasp on her wrist tight enough to leave a bruise.

Then, as quickly as he’d grasped her, he let her go. She stumbled back, flailing for the light switch. When she flipped it, nothing happened.

“No more money for electricity,” her father said. He lit an oil lamp, held it between them. In the wavering light, he looked to be sculpted of melting wax; his lined face sagged, his eyelids were puffy and a little blue. His paddle nose showed black pores the size of pinheads. Even with all of that, with as … tired and old as he suddenly seemed, it was the look in his eyes that made her frown.

Something was wrong.

“Come with me,” he said, his voice raspy and sharp, unrecognizable this time of night without a slur. He led her down past the closet and around the corner to her room. Inside, he turned to look at her.

Behind him, in the lamp’s glow, she saw the moved armoire and the door to the secret room ajar. The smell of urine was strong. Thank God the airman was gone.

Isabelle shook her head, unable to speak.

He sank to sit on the edge of her bed, bowing his head. “Christ, Isabelle. You are a pain in the ass.”

She couldn’t move. Or think. She glanced at the bedroom door, wondering if she could make it out of the apartment. “It was nothing, Papa. A boy.” Oui. “A date. We were kissing, Papa.”

“And do all of your dates piss in the closet? You must be very popular, then.” He sighed. “Enough of this charade.”

“Charade?”

“You found an airman last night and hid him in the closet and today you took him to Monsieur Lévy.”

Isabelle could not have heard correctly. “Pardon?”

“Your downed airman—the one who pissed in the closet and left dirty bootprints in the hallway—you took him to Monsieur Lévy.”

“I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Good for you, Isabelle.”

When he fell silent, she couldn’t stand the suspense. “Papa?”

“I know you came here as a courier for the underground and that you are working with Paul Lévy’s network.”

“H-how—”

“Monsieur Lévy is an old friend. In fact, when the Nazis invaded, he came to me and pulled me out of the bottle of brandy that was all I cared about. He put me to work.”

Isabelle felt so unsteady, she couldn’t stand. It was too intimate to sit by her father, so she sank slowly to the carpet.

“I didn’t want you involved in this, Isabelle. That’s why I sent you from Paris in the first place. I didn’t want to put you at risk with my work. I should have known you’d find your own way to danger.”

“And all the other times you sent me away?” She wished instantly that she hadn’t asked the question, but the moment she had the thought, it was given voice.

“I am no good as a father. We both know that. At least not since your maman’s death.”

“How would we know? You never tried.”

“I tried. You just don’t remember. Anyway, that is all water gone by now. We have bigger concerns.”

“Oui,” she said. Her past felt upended somehow, off balance. She didn’t know what to think or feel. Better to change the subject than to dwell on it. “I am … planning something. I will be gone for a while.”

He looked down at her. “I know. I have spoken to Paul.” He was silent for a long moment. “You know that your life changes right now. You will have to live underground—not here with me, not with anyone. You will not be able to spend more than a few nights in any one place. You will trust absolutely no one. And you will not be Isabelle Rossignol at all anymore; you will be Juliette Gervaise. The Nazis and the collaborators will always be searching for you, and if they find you…”

Isabelle nodded.

A look passed between them. In it, Isabelle felt a connection that had never existed before.

“You know that prisoners of war receive some mercy. You can expect none.”

She nodded.

“Can you do this, Isabelle?”

“I can do it, Papa.”

He nodded. “The name you are looking for is Micheline Babineau. Your maman’s friend in Urrugne. Her husband was killed in the Great War. I think she would welcome you. And tell Paul I will need photographs immediately.”

“Photographs?”

“Of the airmen.” At her continued silence, he finally smiled. “Really, Isabelle? Have you not put the pieces together?”

“But—”

“I forge papers, Isabelle. That’s why I work at the high command. I began by writing the very tracts you distributed in Carriveau, but … it turns out that the poet has a forger’s hand. Who do you think gave you the name Juliette Gervaise?”

“B-but…”