The Nightingale (34 page)

She didn't know what to say to that.

He looked down at Sophie. “She coughed all night. I could hear it.”

Sophie had gone still, frighteningly so. “She'll get better.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bottle of antibiotics. “Here.”

She looked up at him. Was she overstating it to think that he was saving her daughter's life? Or did he
want
her to think that? She could rationalize what it meant to take food from him—after all, he needed to eat and it was her job to cook for him.

This was a favor, pure and simple, and there would be a price for it.

“Take it,” he said gently.

She took the bottle from him. For a second, they were both holding it. She felt his fingers against hers.

Their gazes locked, and something passed between them, a question was asked and answered.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You are most welcome.”

*   *   *

“Sir, the Nightingale is here.”

The British consul nodded. “Send her in.”

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 Brantôme 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.

Isabelle slowed.

Anouk appeared beside her, linking her arm through Isabelle's.
“Bonjour,”
she said in a voice so animated it alerted Isabelle to the fact that they were being watched. Or at least Anouk worried that they were.

“You are like a character in one of those American comics the way you appear and disappear. The Shadow, perhaps.”

Anouk smiled. “And how was your latest holiday in the mountains?”

“Unremarkable.”

Anouk leaned close. “We hear word of something being planned. The Germans are recruiting women for clerical work on Sunday night. Double pay. All very secretive.”

Isabelle slipped the envelope full of franc notes from her pocket and handed it to Anouk, who dropped it into her open handbag. “Night work? And clerical?”

“Paul has gotten you a position,” Anouk said. “You start at nine. When you are finished, go to your father's apartment. He will be waiting for you.”

“
Oui
.”

“It might be dangerous.”

Isabelle shrugged. “What isn't?”

*   *   *

That night, Isabelle walked across town to the prefecture of police. There was a hum in the pavement beneath her feet, the sound of vehicles moving somewhere close by. A lot of them.

“You, there!”

Isabelle stopped. Smiled.

A German walked up to her, his rifle at the ready. His gaze dropped to her chest, looking for a yellow star.

“I am to work tonight,” she said, indicating the prefecture of police building in front of her. Although the windows were blacked out, the place was busy. There were German Wehrmacht officers and French gendarmes milling about, going in and out of the building, which was an oddity at this late hour. In the courtyard was a long row of buses parked end to end. The drivers stood together in a huddle, smoking and talking.

The policeman cocked his head. “Go.”

Isabelle clutched the collar of her drab brown coat. Although it was warm out, she didn't want to draw attention to herself tonight. One of the best ways to disappear in plain sight was to dress like a wren—brown, brown, and more brown. She had covered her blond hair with a black scarf, tied in a turban style with a big knot in front, and had used no cosmetics, not even lipstick.

She kept her head down as she walked through a throng of men in French police uniforms. Just inside the building, she stopped.

It was a huge space with staircases on either side and office doors spaced every few feet, but tonight it looked like a sweatshop, with hundreds of women seated at desks pressed close together. Telephones rang nonstop and French police officers moved in a rush.

“You are here to help with the sorting?” asked a bored French gendarme at the desk nearest the door.

“Oui.”

“I'll find you a place to work. Come with me.” He led her around the perimeter of the room.

Desks were spaced so closely together that Isabelle had to turn sideways to make her way down the narrow aisle to the empty desk he'd indicated. When she sat down and scooted close, she was elbow-to-elbow with the women on either side of her. The surface of her desk was covered with card boxes.

She opened the first box and saw the stack of cards within. She pulled out the first one and stared at it.

S
TERNHOLZ
, I
SSAC

12 avenue Rast

4
th
arrondissement

Sabotier (clog maker)

It went on to list his wife and children.

“You are to separate the foreign-born Jews,” said the gendarme, who she hadn't noticed had followed her.

“Pardon?” she said, taking out another card. This one was for “Berr, Simone.”

“That box there. The empty one. Separate the Jews born in France from those born elsewhere. We are only interested in foreign-born Jews. Men, women, and children.”

“Why?”

“They're Jews. Who cares? Now get to work.”

Isabelle turned back around in her seat. She had hundreds of cards in front of her, and there were at least a hundred women in this room. The sheer scale of this operation was impossible to comprehend. What could it possibly mean?

“How long have you been here?” she asked the woman beside her.

“Days,” the woman said, opening another box. “My children weren't hungry last night for the first time in months.”

“What are we doing?”

The woman shrugged. “I've heard them saying something about Operation Spring Wind.”

“What does it mean?”

“I don't want to know.”

Isabelle flipped through the cards in the box. One near the end stopped her.

L
ÉVY
, P
AUL

61 rue Blandine, Apt. C

7
th
arrondissement

Professor of literature

She got to her feet so fast she bumped into the woman beside her, who cursed at the interruption. The cards on her desk slid to the floor in a cascade. Isabelle immediately knelt down and gathered them up, daring to stick Monsieur Lévy's card up her sleeve.

The moment she stood, someone grabbed her by the arm and dragged her down the narrow aisle. She bumped into women all down the row.

In the empty space by the wall, she was twisted around and shoved back so hard she slammed into the wall.

“What is the meaning of this?” snarled the French policeman, his grip on her arm tight enough to leave a bruise.

Could he feel the index card beneath her sleeve?

“I'm sorry. So sorry. I need to work, but I'm sick, you see. The flu.” She coughed as loudly as she could.

Isabelle walked past him and left the building. Outside, she kept coughing until she got to the corner. There, she started to run.

*   *   *

“What could it mean?”

Isabelle peered past the blackout shade in the apartment, staring down at the avenue. Papa sat at the dining room table, nervously drumming his ink-stained fingers on the wood. It felt good to be here again—with him—after months away, but she was too agitated to relax and enjoy the homey feel of the place.

“You must be mistaken, Isabelle,” Papa said, on his second brandy since her return. “You said there had to be tens of thousands of cards. That would be all the Jewish people in Paris. Surely—”

“Question what it means, Papa, but not the facts,” she answered. “The Germans are collecting the names and addresses of every foreign-born Jewish person in Paris. Men, women, and children.”

“But why? Paul Lévy is of Polish descent, it's true, but he has lived here for decades. He fought for France in the Great War—his brother died for France. The Vichy government has assured us that veterans are protected from the Nazis.”

“Vianne was asked for a list of names,” Isabelle said. “She was asked to write down every Jewish, communist, and Freemason teacher at her school. Afterward they were all fired.”

“They can hardly fire them twice.” He finished his drink and poured another. “And it is the French police gathering names. If it were the Germans, it would be different.”

Isabelle had no answer to that. They had been having this same conversation for at least three hours.

Now it was edging past two in the morning, and neither of them could come up with a credible reason why the Vichy government and the French police were collecting the names and addresses of every foreign-born Jewish person living in Paris.

She saw a flash of silver outside. Lifting the shade a little higher, she stared down at the dark street.

A row of buses rolled down the avenue, their painted headlamps off, looking like a slow-moving centipede that stretched for blocks.