The Nightingale

Vianne thought perhaps he’d translated his intention poorly. “Pardon?”

“Madame de Champlain should not be at home tomorrow,” he repeated.

“My husband and I own this house,” Rachel said. “Why should I leave?”

“It will not matter, this ownership of the house. Not tomorrow.”

“My children—” Rachel started.

Beck finally looked at Rachel. “Your children are of no concern to us. They were born in France. They are not on the list.”

List.

A word that was feared now. Vianne said quietly, “What are you telling us?”

“I am telling you that if she is here tomorrow, she will not be here the day after.”

“But—”

“If she were my friend, I would find a way to hide her for a day.”

“Only for a day?” Vianne asked, studying him closely.

“That is all I came to say, Mesdames, and I should not have done it. I would be … punished if word got out. Please, if you are questioned about this later, do not mention my visit.” He clicked his heels together, pivoted, and walked away.

Rachel looked at Vianne. They had heard rumors of roundups in Paris—women and children being deported—but no one believed it. How could they? The claims were crazy, impossible—tens of thousands of people taken from their homes in the middle of the night by the French police. And all at once? It couldn’t be true. “Do you trust him?”

Vianne considered the question. She surprised herself by saying, “Yes.”

“So what do I do?”

“Take the children to the Free Zone. Tonight.” Vianne couldn’t believe she was thinking it, let alone saying it.

“Last week Madame Durant tried to cross the frontier and she was shot and her children deported.”

Vianne would say the same thing in Rachel’s place. It was one thing for a woman to run by herself; it was another thing to risk your children’s lives. But what if they were risking their lives by staying here?

“You’re right. It’s too dangerous. But I think you should do as Beck advises. Hide. It is only for a day. Then perhaps we’ll know more.”

“Where?”

“Isabelle prepared for this and I thought she was a fool.” She sighed. “There’s a cellar in the barn.”

“You know that if you are caught hiding me—”

“Oui,” Vianne said sharply. She didn’t want to hear it said aloud. Punishable by death. “I know.”

*

Vianne slipped a sleeping draught into Sophie’s lemonade and put the child to bed early. (Not the sort of thing that made one feel like a good mother, but neither was it all right to take Sophie with them tonight or let her waken alone. Bad choices. That was all there were anymore.) While waiting for her daughter to fall asleep, Vianne paced. She heard every clatter of wind against the shutters, every creaky settling of the timbers of the old house. At just past six o’clock, she dressed in her old gardening overalls and went downstairs.

She found Beck sitting on her divan, an oil lamp lit beside him. He was holding a small, framed portrait of his family. His wife—Hilda, Vianne knew—and his children, Gisela and Wilhelm.

At her arrival, he looked up but didn’t stand.

Vianne didn’t know quite what to do. She wanted him to be invisible right now, tucked behind the closed door of his room, someone she could completely discount. And yet he had risked his career to help Rachel. How could she ignore that?

“Bad things are happening, Madame. Impossible things. I trained to be a soldier, to fight for my country and make my family proud. It was an honorable choice. What will be thought of us upon our return? What will be thought of me?”

She sat down beside him. “I worry about what Antoine will think of me, too. I should not have given you that list of names. I should have been more frugal with my money. I should have worked harder to keep my job. Perhaps I should have listened to Isabelle more.”

“You should not blame yourself. I’m sure your husband would agree. We men are perhaps too quick to reach for our guns.”

He turned slightly, his gaze taking in her attire.

She was dressed in her overalls and a black sweater. A black scarf covered her hair. She looked like a housewife version of a spy.

“It is dangerous for her to run,” he said.

“And to stay, apparently.”

“And there it is,” he said. “A terrible dilemma.”

“Which is more dangerous, I wonder?” Vianne asked.

She expected no answer and was surprised when he said, “Staying, I think.”

Vianne nodded.

“You should not go,” he said.

“I can’t let her go alone.”

Beck considered that. Finally he nodded. “You know the land of Monsieur Frette, where the cows are raised?”

“Oui. But—”

“There is a cattle trail behind the barn. It leads to the least manned of the checkpoints. It is a long walk, but one should make the checkpoint before curfew. If someone were wondering about that. Not that I know anyone who is.”

“My father, Julien Rossignol, lives in Paris at 57 Avenue de La Bourdonnais. If I … didn’t come home one day…”

“I would see that your daughter made it to Paris.”