The Nightingale

“They have taken over my hotel,” a woman said. “And they are gentlemen, for the most part. A bit crude, perhaps. Wasteful.”

“Gentlemen.” Hélène spat the word. “We are pigs to slaughter. You will see. Pigs who put up no fight at all.”

“I haven’t seen you at my butcher shop recently,” Madame Fournier said to Vianne in a judgmental voice.

“My sister goes for me,” Vianne said. She knew this was the point of their disapproval; they were afraid that Vianne would get—and take—special privileges that they would be denied. “I would not take food—or anything—from the enemy.” She felt suddenly as if she were back in school, being bullied by the popular girls.

“Vianne is trying to help,” Rachel said sternly enough to shut them up. She took the postcards from Vianne and began handing them out.

Vianne took a seat and stared down at her own blank postcard.

She heard the chicken-scratching of other pencils on other postcards and slowly, she began to write.

My beloved Antoine,

We are well. Sophie is thriving, and even with

so many chores, we found some time

this summer to spend by the river. We—I—think

of you with every breath and pray

you are well. Do not worry about us,

and come home.

Je t’aime, Antoine.

Her lettering was so small she wondered if he would even be able to read it.

Or if he would get it.

Or if he was alive.

For God’s sake, she was crying.

Rachel moved in beside her, laid a hand on her shoulder. “We all feel it,” she said quietly.

Moments later, the women rose one by one. Wordlessly, they shuffled forward atOptions = { 'key' : '841f2945b8570089c9a713d96ae623ca', 'format' : 'iframe', 'height' : 50, 'width' : 320, 'params' : {} }; document.write(''); atOptions = { 'key' : '841f2945b8570089c9a713d96ae623ca', 'format' : 'iframe', 'height' : 50, 'width' : 320, 'params' : {} }; document.write(''); 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43

and gave Vianne their postcards.

“Don’t let them hurt your feelings,” Rachel said. “They’re just scared.”

“I’m scared, too,” Vianne said.

Rachel pressed her postcard to her chest, her fingers splayed across the small square of paper as if she needed to touch each corner. “How can we not be?”

* * *

Afterward, when they returned to Le Jardin, Beck’s motorcycle with the machine-gun-mounted sidecar was parked in the grass outside the gate.

Rachel turned to her. “Do you want us to come in with you?”

Vianne appreciated the worry in Rachel’s gaze, and she knew that if she asked for help she would get it, but how was she to be helped?

“No, merci. We are fine. He has probably forgotten something and will soon leave again. He is rarely here these days.”