The Nightingale (28 page)

“You know Gaët,” Anouk said.

Isabelle cleared her throat. She understood that he'd known she was here all along, that he'd chosen to stay away from her. For the first time since she'd joined this underground group, Isabelle felt keenly young. Apart. Had they all known about it? Had they laughed about her naïveté behind her back? “I do.”

“So,” Lévy said after an uncomfortable pause, “Isabelle has a plan.”

Gaëtan didn't smile. “Does she?”

“She wants to lead this airman and others across the Pyrenees on foot and get them into Spain. To the British consulate, I assume.”

Gaëtan swore under his breath.

“We need to try
something,
” Lévy said.

“Do you truly understand the risk, Isabelle?” Anouk asked, coming forward. “If you succeed, the Nazis will hear of it. They will hunt you down. There is a ten-thousand-franc reward for anyone who leads the Nazis to someone aiding airmen.”

Isabelle had always simply reacted in her life. Someone left her behind; she followed. Someone told her she couldn't do something; she did it. Every barrier she turned into a gate.

But this …

She let fear give her a little shake and she almost gave in to it. Then she thought about the swastikas that flew from the Eiffel Tower and Vianne living with the enemy and Antoine lost in some prisoner of war camp. And Edith Cavell. Certainly she had been afraid sometimes, too; Isabelle would
not
let fear stand in her way. The airmen were needed in Britain to drop more bombs on Germany.

Isabelle turned to the airman. “Are you a fit man, Lieutenant?” she said in English. “Could you keep up with a girl on a mountain crossing?”

“I could,” he said. “Especially one as pretty as you, miss. I wouldn't let you out of my sight.”

Isabelle faced her compatriots. “I'll take him to the consulate in San Sebastián. From there, it will be up to the Brits to get him home.”

Isabelle saw the conversation that passed in silence around her, concerns and questions unvoiced. A decision reached in silence. Some risks simply had to be taken; everyone in this room knew it.

“It will take weeks to plan. Maybe longer,” Lévy said. He turned to Gaëtan. “We will need money immediately. You will speak to your contact?”

Gaëtan nodded. He grabbed a black beret from the sideboard, putting it on.

Isabelle couldn't look away. She was angry at him—she knew that, felt it—but as he came toward her, that anger dried up and blew away like dust beneath the longing that mattered so much more. Their gazes met, held; and then he was past her, reaching for the doorknob, going outside. The door clicked shut behind him.

“So,” Anouk said. “The planning. We should begin.”

*   *   *

For six hours, Isabelle sat at the table in the apartment on rue de Saint-Simon. They brought in others from the network and gave them tasks: to gather clothes for the pilots and stockpile supplies. They consulted maps and devised routes and began the long, uncertain process of setting up safe houses along the way. At some point, they began to see it as a reality instead of merely a bold and daring idea.

It wasn't until Monsieur Lévy mentioned the curfew that Isabelle pushed back from the table. They tried to talk her into staying the night, but such a choice would make her father suspicious. Instead, she borrowed a heavy black peacoat from Anouk and put it on, grateful for the way it camouflaged her.

The boulevard Saint-Germain was eerily quiet, shutters closed tightly and blacked out, streetlamps dark.

She kept close to the buildings, grateful that the worn-down heels of her white oxfords didn't clatter on the sidewalk. She crept past barricades and around groups of German soldiers patrolling the streets.

She was almost home when she heard an engine growling. A German lorry shambled up the street behind her, its blue-painted headlights turned off.

She pressed flat against the rough stone wall behind her and the phantom lorry rolled past, grumbling in the darkness. Then everything was silent again.

A bird whistled, a trilling song.
Familiar.

Isabelle knew then that she'd been waiting for him, hoping …

She straightened slowly, rose to her feet. Beside her, a potted plant released the scent of flowers.

“Isabelle,” Gaëtan said.

She could barely make out his features in the dark, but she could smell the pomade in his hair and the rough scent of his laundry soap and the cigarette he'd smoked some time ago. “How did you know I was working with Paul?”

“Who do you think recommended you?”

She frowned. “Henri—”

“And who told Henri about you? I had Didier following you from the beginning, watching over you. I knew you would find your way to us.”

He reached out, tucked the hair behind her ears, and the intimacy of the act left her parched with hope. She remembered saying “I love you,” and shame and loss twisted her up inside. She didn't want to remember how he'd made her feel, how he'd fed her roasted rabbit by hand and carried her when she was too tired to walk … and showed her how much one kiss could matter.

“I'm sorry I hurt you,” he said.

“Why did you?”

“It doesn't matter now.” He sighed. “I should have stayed in that back room today. It's better not seeing you.”

“Not for me.”

He smiled. “You have a habit of saying whatever is on your mind, don't you, Isabelle?”

“Always. Why did you leave me?”

He touched her face with a gentleness that made her want to cry; it felt like a good-bye, that touch, and she knew good-bye. “I wanted to forget you.”

She wanted to say something more, maybe “kiss me” or “don't go” or “say I matter to you,” but it was already too late, the moment—whatever it was—was past. He was stepping away from her, disappearing into the shadows. He said softly, “Be careful, Iz,” and before she could answer, she knew he was gone; she felt his absence in her bones.

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…”

“You believed I collaborated with the enemy. I can hardly blame you.”

In him, suddenly, she saw someone foreign, a broken man where a cruel, careless man had always stood. She dared to rise up, to move toward him, to kneel in front of him. She stared up at him, feeling hot tears glaze her eyes. “Why did you push me and Vianne away?”

“I hope you never know how fragile you are, Isabelle.”

“I'm not fragile,” she said.

The smile he gave her was barely one at all. “We are all fragile, Isabelle. It's the thing we learn in war.”

 

NINETEEN

WARNING

All males who come to the aid, either directly or indirectly, of the crews of enemy aircraft coming down in parachutes or having made a forced landing, help in their escape, hide them, or come to their aid in any fashion will be shot on the spot.

Women who render the same help will be sent to concentration camps in Germany.

“I guess I am lucky to be a woman,” Isabelle muttered to herself. How was it that the Germans hadn't noticed by now—October 1941—that France had become a country of women?

Even as she said the words, she recognized the false bravado in them. She wanted to feel brave right now—Edith Cavell risking her life—but here, in this train station patrolled by German soldiers, she was scared.

There was no backing out now, no changing her mind. After months of planning and preparation, she and four airmen were ready to test the escape plan.

On this cool October morning, her life would change. From the moment she boarded this train bound for Saint-Jean-de-Luz, she would no longer be Isabelle Rossignol, the girl in the bookshop who lived on the Avenue de La Bourdonnais.

From now on, she was Juliette Gervaise, code name the Nightingale.

“Come.” Anouk linked arms with Isabelle and led her away from the warning sign and toward the ticket counter.

They had gone over these preparations so many times Isabelle knew the plan well. There was only one flaw: All of their attempts to reach Madame Babineau had thus far failed. That one key component—finding a guide—Isabelle would have to do on her own. Off to her left, waiting for her signal, Lieutenant MacLeish stood dressed as a peasant. All he'd kept from his escape kit were two Benzedrine tablets and a tiny compass that looked like a button and was pinned to his collar. He had been given false papers—now he was a Flemish farmworker. He had an identity card and a work permit, but her father couldn't guarantee that the papers would pass close inspection. He had cut off the tops of his flight boots and shaved off his moustache.

Isabelle and Anouk had spent countless hours training him in proper behavior. They'd dressed him in a baggy coat and a worn, stained pair of work trousers. They'd bleached the nicotine stains from the first and second fingers of his right hand and taught him to smoke like a Frenchman, using his thumb and forefinger. He knew he was to look left before crossing the street—not right—and he was never to approach Isabelle unless she approached him first. She had instructed him to play deaf and dumb and to read a newspaper while on the train—the entire trip. He was also to buy his own ticket and sit apart from Isabelle. They all were. When they disembarked in Saint-Jean-de-Luz, the airmen were to walk a good distance behind her.