The Nightingale

Isabelle entered the dark, mahogany-lined office at the end of the elaborate hallway. Before she even reached the desk, the man behind it stood. “Good to see you again.”

She sank into the uncomfortable leather chair and took the glass of brandy he offered. This latest crossing of the Pyrenees had been difficult, even in the perfect July weather. One of the American airmen had had difficulty following “a girl’s” orders and had gone off on his own. They’d gotten word that he’d been arrested by the Spaniards. “Yanks,” she said, shaking her head. There was no more that needed to be said. She and her contact, Ian—code name Tuesday—had worked together from the beginning of the Nightingale escape route. With help from Paul’s network, they had set up a complex series of safe houses across France and a group of partisans ready to give their lives to help the downed airmen get home. French men and women scanned the skies at night, watching for aeroplanes in trouble and parachutes floating downward. They combed the streets, peering into shadows, looking through barns, seeking Allied soldiers in hiding. Once back in England, the pilots couldn’t fly missions again—not with their knowledge of the network—instead, they prepared their colleagues for the worst: taught them evasion techniques, told them how to find help, and supplied them with franc notes and compasses and photographs ready-made for false papers.

Isabelle sipped the brandy. Experience had taught her to be cautious with alcohol after the crossing. She was usually more dehydrated than she realized, especially in the heat of summer.

Ian pushed an envelope toward her. She took it, counted the franc notes inside, and slid the money into a pocket in her coat. “That’s eighty-seven airmen you’ve brought us in the past eight months, Isabelle,” he said, taking his seat. Only in this room, one-on-one, did he use her real name. In all official correspondence with MI9, she was the Nightingale. To the other employees of the consulate and in Britain, she was Juliette Gervaise. “I think you should slow down.”

“Slow down?”

“The Germans are looking for the Nightingale, Isabelle.”

“That’s old news, Ian.”

“They’re trying to infiltrate your escape route. Nazis are out there, pretending to be downed airmen. If you pick up one of them…”

“We’re careful, Ian. You know that. I interrogate every man myself. And the network in Paris is tireless.”

“They’re looking for the Nightingale. If they find you…”

“They won’t.” She got to her feet.

He stood, too, and faced her. “Be careful, Isabelle.”

“Always.”

He came around the desk and took her by the arm and led her out of the building.

She took a little time to enjoy the seaside beauty of San Sebastián, to walk along the path above the crashing white surf below and enjoy buildings that didn’t bear swastikas, but such moments of brushing up to ordinary life were a luxury she couldn’t indulge for long. She sent Paul a message via courier that read: Dear Uncle,

I hope this note finds you well.

I am at our favorite place by the sea.

Our friends have arrived safely.

Tomorrow I shall visit Grandmère in Paris at three o’clock.

Love always,

Juliette

She returned to Paris via a circuitous route; she stopped at each of the safe houses—in Carriveau and Brant?me and Pau and Poitiers—and paid her helpers. The feeding and clothing of airmen in hiding was no small undertaking, and since every man, woman, and child (mostly women) who maintained the escape route did so at the risk of their lives, the network strived to make it not ruinous financially, too.

She never walked through the streets of Carriveau (hidden beneath a cloak and hood) without thinking about her sister. Lately, she had begun to miss Vianne and Sophie. Memories of their nights playing Belote or checkers by the fire, Vianne teaching Isabelle to knit (or trying to), and Sophie’s laughter had taken on a warm patina. She imagined sometimes that Vianne had offered Isabelle a possibility she hadn’t seen at the time: a home.

But it was too late for that now. Isabelle couldn’t risk putting Vianne in danger by showing up at Le Jardin. Surely Beck would ask what she’d been doing in Paris for so long. Maybe he would wonder enough to check.

In Paris, she exited the train amid a crowd of drab-eyed, dark-clothed people who looked like they belonged in an Edvard Munch painting. As she passed the glittering gold dome of the Invalides, a light fog moved through the streets, plucking color from the trees. Most of the cafés were closed, their chairs and tables stacked beneath tattered awnings. Across the street was the apartment she’d called home for the past month, a dark, squalid lonely little attic tucked above an abandoned charcuterie. The walls still smelled vaguely of pork and spices.

She heard someone yell, “Halt!” Whistles shrieked; people screamed. Several Wehrmacht soldiers, accompanied by French policemen, encircled a small group of people, who immediately dropped to their knees and raised their arms. She saw yellow stars on their chests.