The Nightingale (45 page)

How could she leave him? They might never see each other again.

That was the crux of her fear.

“I get it, you know,” Gaëtan said.

She didn't know what he meant, but she heard the hollowness in his voice and knew it wasn't good. The sadness that came with being in his bed—matched equally with joy—expanded.

“Get what?” she asked, but she didn't want to hear.

“That every time we kiss, it's good-bye.”

She closed her eyes.

“The war is out there, Iz. I need to get back to it.”

She knew and agreed, though it caused a constriction in her chest. “I know” was all she could say, afraid that any deeper exploration would hurt more than she could bear.

“There is a group gathering at Urrugne,” she said. “I should be there by nightfall on Wednesday, if we're lucky.”

“We are not lucky,” he said. “You must know that by now.”

“You are wrong, Gaëtan. Now that you've met me, you'll never be able to forget me. That's something.” She leaned over for a kiss.

He said something softly, quietly, against her lips; maybe it was “it's not enough.” She didn't care. She didn't want to hear.

*   *   *

In November, the people of Carriveau began to hunker down into winter survival mode again. They knew now what they hadn't known last winter: Life could get worse. War was being waged all over the world; in Africa, in the Soviet Union, in Japan, on an island somewhere called Guadalcanal. With the Germans fighting on so many fronts, food had become even more scarce, as had wood and gas and electricity and everyday supplies.

This Friday morning was particularly cold and gray. Not a good day for venturing out, but Vianne had decided that today was The Day. It had taken some time to work up the courage to leave the house with Daniel, but she knew that it had to be done. His hair was cut so short he was almost bald and she'd dressed him in oversized clothes to make him look smaller. Anything to disguise him.

She forced herself to show good posture as she walked through town, with a child on each side of her—Sophie and Daniel.

Daniel.

At the
boulangerie,
she took her place at the back of the queue. She waited breathlessly for someone to ask about the boy beside her, but the women in line were too tired and hungry and downtrodden even to look up. When it was finally Vianne's turn at the counter, Yvette looked up. She had been a beautiful woman only two years ago, with flowing copper-colored hair and eyes as black as coal. Now, three years into the war, she looked aged and tired. “Vianne Mauriac. I have not seen you with your daughter for a while.
Bonjour,
Sophie, you have grown so tall.” She peered over the counter. “And who is this good-looking young man?”

“Daniel,” he said proudly.

Vianne placed a trembling hand on his shorn head. “I adopted him from Antoine's cousin in Nice. She … died.”

Yvette pushed the frizzy hair out of her eyes, pulled a strand of it out of her mouth as she stared down at the toddler. She had three sons of her own, one not much older than Daniel.

Vianne's heart hammered in her chest.

Yvette stepped back from the counter. She went to the small door that separated the shop from the bakery. “Herr Lieutenant,” she said. “Could you come out here?”

Vianne tightened her grip on her willow basket handle, working it as if it were piano keys.

A portly German ambled out of the back room, his arms overflowing with freshly baked baguettes. He saw Vianne and stopped. “Madame,” he said, his apple cheeks bulging at the fullness of his mouth.

Vianne could barely nod.

Yvette said to the soldier, “There's no more bread today, Herr Lieutenant. If I make more I will save the best for you and your men. This poor woman couldn't even get a day-old baguette.”

The man's eyes narrowed appreciatively. He moved toward Vianne, his flat feet thumping on the stone floor. Wordlessly, he dropped a half-eaten baguette into her basket. Then he nodded and left the shop, a little bell tinkling at his exit.

When they were alone, Yvette moved in close to Vianne, so close she had to fight the urge to step back. “I heard you have an SS officer in your house now. What happened to the handsome captain?”

“He disappeared,” Vianne said evenly. “No one knows.”

“No one? Why did they bring you in for questioning? Everyone saw you go in.”

“I am just a housewife. What could I possibly know of such things?”

Yvette stared at her a moment longer, assessing Vianne in the silence. Then she stepped back. “You are a good friend, Vianne Mauriac,” she said quietly.

Vianne nodded briefly and herded the children to the door. The days of stopping to talk to friends on the street were gone. Now it was dangerous enough to simply make eye contact; friendly conversation had gone the way of butter and coffee and pork.

Outside, Vianne paused on the cracked stone step, through which a lush patch of frosted weeds pushed up. She was wearing a winter coat she had made from a tapestried bedspread. She had copied a pattern she'd seen in a magazine: double breasted, knee length, with a wide lapel and buttons she'd taken from one of her mother's favorite Harris tweed jackets. It was warm enough for today, but soon she would need layers of newsprint between her sweater and her coat.

Vianne retied the scarf around her head and knotted it more tightly beneath her chin as the icy wind hit her full in the face. Leaves skittered across the stone aisle, cartwheeled across her booted feet.

She held tightly to Daniel's mittened hand and stepped out into the street. She knew instantly that something was wrong. There were German soldiers and French gendarmes everywhere—in cars, on motorcycles, marching up the icy street, gathered in pods at the cafés.

Whatever was happening out here, it couldn't be good, and it was always best to stay away from the soldiers—especially since the Allied victories in North Africa.

“Come on, Sophie and Daniel. Let's go home.”

She tried to turn right at the corner but found the street barricaded. All up and down the street doors were locked and shutters were closed. The bistros were empty. There was a terrible sense of danger in the air.

The next street she tried was barricaded, too. A pair of Nazi soldiers stood guard at it, their rifles pointed at her. Behind them, German soldiers marched up the street toward them, goose-stepping in formation.

Vianne took the children's hands and picked up their pace, but one street after another was barricaded and guarded. It became clear that there was a plan in place. Lorries and buses were thundering up the cobblestoned streets toward the town square.

Vianne came to the square and stopped, breathing hard, pulling the children in close to her sides.

Pandemonium. There were buses lined up in a row, disgorging passengers—all of whom wore a yellow star. Women and children were being forced, pushed, herded into the square. Nazis stood on the perimeter, a terrible, frightening patrol edge, while French policemen pulled people out of the buses, yanked jewelry from women's necks, shoved them at gunpoint.

“Maman!” Sophie cried.

Vianne clamped a hand over her daughter's mouth.

To her left, a young woman was shoved to the ground and then hauled back up by her hair and dragged through the crowd.

“Vianne?”

She swung around, saw Hélène Ruelle carrying a small leather suitcase and holding a little boy's hand. An older boy stood close to her side. A yellow, tattered star identified them.

“Take my sons,” Hélène said desperately to Vianne.

“Here?” Vianne said, glancing around.

“No, Maman,” the older boy said. “Papa told me to take care of you. I am not leaving you. If you let go of my hand, I'll just follow you. Better we stay together.”

Behind them another whistle shrieked.

Hélène shoved the younger boy into Vianne, pushed him hard against Daniel. “He is Jean Georges, like his uncle. Four years old this June. My husband's people are in Burgundy.”

“I have no papers for him … they'll kill me if I take him.”

“You!” a Nazi shouted at Hélène. He came up behind her, grabbed her by the hair, almost yanking her off her feet. She slammed into her older son, who strove to keep her upright.

And then Hélène and her son were gone, lost in the crowd. The boy was beside her, wailing, “Maman!” and sobbing.

“We need to leave,” Vianne said to Sophie. “
Now
.” She clutched Jean Georges's hand so tightly he cried harder. Every time he yelled, “Maman!” she flinched and prayed for him to be quiet. They hurried up one street and down the other, dodging the barricades and bypassing the soldiers who were breaking down doors and herding Jewish people into the square. Twice they were stopped and allowed to pass because they had no stars on their clothing. On the muddy road, she had to slow down, but she didn't stop, even when both boys started crying.

At Le Jardin, Vianne finally stopped.

Von Richter's black Citroën was parked out front.

“Oh
no,
” Sophie said.

Vianne looked down at her terrified daughter and saw her own fear replicated in the beloved eyes, and all at once she knew what she needed to do. “We have to try to save him or we are as bad as they are,” she said. And there it was. She hated to bring her daughter into this, but what choice was there? “I have to save this boy.”

“How?”

“I don't know yet,” Vianne admitted.

“But Von Richter—”

As if drawn by his own name, the Nazi appeared at the front door, looking fussily precise in his uniform. “Ah, Madame Mauriac,” he said, his gaze narrowing as he approached her. “There you are.”

Vianne struggled for calm. “We have been to town for shopping.”

“Not a good day for that. Jews are being collected for deportation.” He walked toward her, his boots tamping down the wet grass. Beside him, the apple tree was barren of leaves; bits of fabric fluttered from the empty branches. Red. Pink. White. A new one for Beck—in black.

“And who is this fine-looking youngster?” Von Richter said, touching the child's tear-streaked cheek with one black-gloved finger.

“A f-friend's boy. His mother died of tuberculosis this week.”

Von Richter lurched backward, as if she'd said bubonic plague. “I don't want that child in the house. Is that understood? You will take him to the orphanage this instant.”

The orphanage. Mother Marie-Therese.

She nodded. “Of course, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

He made a flicking gesture with his hand as if to say,
Go, now.
He started to walk away. Then he stopped and turned back to face Vianne. “I want you home this evening for supper.”

“I am always home, Herr Sturmbannführer.”

“We leave tomorrow, and I want you to feed me and my men a good meal before we go.”

“Leave?” she asked, feeling a spike of hope.

“We are occupying the rest of France tomorrow. No more Free Zone. It's about damn time. Letting you French govern yourselves was a joke. Good day, Madame.”

Vianne remained where she was, standing still, holding the child's hand. Above the sound of Jean Georges's crying, she heard the gate squeak open and slam shut. Then a car engine started up.

When he was gone, Sophie said, “Will Mother Marie-Therese hide him?”

“I hope so. Take Daniel into the house and lock the door. Don't open it for anyone but me. I'll be back as soon as I can.”

Sophie looked old for her age suddenly, wise beyond her years. “Good for you, Maman.”

“We shall see” was all the hope she had left.

When her children were safely in the house, with the door locked, she said to the boy beside her, “Come, Jean Georges, we are going for a walk.”

“To my maman?”

She couldn't look at him. “Come.”

*   *   *

As Vianne and the boy walked back to town, an intermittent rain began. Jean Georges alternately cried and complained, but Vianne was so nervous she barely heard him.

How could she ask Mother Superior to take this risk?

How could she not?

They walked past the church to the convent hidden behind it. The Order of the Sisters of St. Joseph had begun in 1650 with six like-minded women who simply wanted to serve the poor in their community. They had grown to thousands of members throughout France until religious communities were forbidden by the state during the French revolution. Some of the original six sisters had become martyrs for their beliefs—guillotined for their faith.

Vianne went to the abbey's front door and lifted the heavy iron knocker, letting it fall against the oak door, clattering hard.

“Why are we here?” Jean Georges whined. “Is my maman here?”

“Shhh.”

A nun answered, her sweet, plump face bracketed by the white wimple and black hood of her habit. “Ah, Vianne,” she said, smiling.

“Sister Agatha, I would like to speak to Mother Superior, if that's possible.”

The nun stepped back, her habit swishing on the stone floor. “I will see. You two take a seat in the garden?”

Vianne nodded. “
Merci.
” She and Jean Georges made their way through the cold cloisters. At the end of one arched corridor, they turned left and went into the garden. It was good sized, and square, with frosted brown grass and a marble lion's head fountain and several stone benches placed here and there. Vianne took a seat on one of the cold benches out of the rain, and pulled the boy up beside her.

She didn't have long to wait.

“Vianne,” Mother said, coming forward, her habit dragging on the grass, her fingers closed around the large crucifix that hung from a chain around her neck. “How good it is to see you. It's been too long. And who is this young man?”