The Nightingale

God would see her guilt and fear, and He would judge her. She lowered her clasped hands and climbed back up to sit on the wooden pew.

“Vianne Mauriac, is that you?”

Mother Superior Marie-Therese moved in beside Vianne and sat down. She waited for Vianne to speak. It had always been this way between them. The first time Vianne had come to Mother for advice, Vianne had been sixteen years old and pregnant. It had been Mother who comforted Vianne after Papa called her a disgrace; Mother who had planned for a rushed wedding and talked Papa into letting Vianne and Antoine have Le Jardin; Mother who’d promised Vianne that a child was always a miracle and that young love could endure.

“You know there is a German billeted at my house,” Vianne said finally.

“They are at all of the big homes and in every hotel.”

“He asked me which of the teachers at school were Jewish or communist or Freemasons.”

“Ah. And you answered him.”

“That makes me the fool Isabelle calls me, doesn’t it?”

“You are no fool, Vianne.” She gazed at Vianne. “And your sister is quick to judge. That much I remember about her.”

“I ask myself if they would have found these names without my help.”

“They have dismissed Jews from positions all over town. Do you not know this? M’sieur Penoir is not the postmaster anymore, and Judge Braias has been replaced. I have had news from Paris that the headmistress of Collège Sévigné was forced to resign, as have all of the Jewish singers at the Paris Opera. Perhaps they needed your help, perhaps they did not. Certainly they would have found the names without your help,” Mother said in a voice that was both gentle and stern. “But that is not what matters.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think, as this war goes on, we will all have to look more deeply. These questions are not about them, but about us.”

Vianne felt tears sting her eyes. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Antoine always took care of everything. The Wehrmacht and the Gestapo are more than I can handle.”

“Don’t think about who they are. Think about who you are and what sacrifices you can live with and what will break you.”

“It’s all breaking me. I need to be more like Isabelle. She is so certain of everything. This war is black and white for her. Nothing seems to scare her.”

“Isabelle will have her crisis of faith in this, too. As will we all. I have been here before, in the Great War. I know the hardships are just beginning. You must stay strong.”

“By believing in God.”

“Yes, of course, but not only by believing in God. Prayers and faith will not be enough, I’m afraid. The path of righteousness is often dangerous. Get ready, Vianne. This is only your first test. Learn from it.” Mother leaned forward and hugged Vianne again. Vianne held on tightly, her face pressed to the scratchy wool habit.

When she pulled back, she felt a little better.

Mother Superior stood, took Vianne’s hand, and drew her to a stand. “Perhaps you could find the time to visit the children this week and give them a lesson? They loved it when you taught them painting. As you can imagine, there’s a lot of grumbling about empty bellies these days. Praise the Lord the sisters have an excellent garden, and the goats’ milk and cheese is a Godsend. Still…”

“Yes,” Vianne said. Everyone knew about how the belt-tightening felt, especially to children.

“You’re not alone, and you’re not the one in charge,” Mother said gently. “Ask for help when you need it, and give help when you can. I think that is how we serve God—and each other and ourselves—in times as dark as these.”

* * *

You’re not the one in charge.

Vianne contemplated Mother’s words all the way home.

She had always taken great comfort in her faith. When Maman had first begun to cough, and then when that coughing deepened into a hacking shudder that left sprays of blood on handkerchiefs, Vianne had prayed to God for all that she needed. Help. Guidance. A way to cheat the death that had come to call. At fourteen she’d promised God anything—everything—if He would just spare her maman’s life. With her prayers unanswered, she returned to God and prayed for the strength to deal with the aftermath—her loneliness, Papa’s bleak, angry silences and drunken rages, Isabelle’s wailing neediness.

Time and again, she had returned to God, pleading for help, promising her faith. She wanted to believe that she was neither alone nor in charge, but rather that her life was unfolding according to His plan, even if she couldn’t see it.

Now, though, such hope felt as slight and bendable as tin.

She was alone and there was no one else in charge, no one but the Nazis.