The Nightingale

In the silence between them, she heard a frog croak and the leaves fluttering in a jasmine-scented breeze above their heads. A nightingale sang a sad and lonely song.

“You do not seem yourself, Madame,” he said. “If you do not mind me saying so.”

“I was fired from my teaching position today.” It was the first time she’d said the words aloud and they caused hot tears to glaze her eyes. “I … drew attention to myself.”

“A dangerous thing to do.”

“The money my husband left is gone. I am unemployed. And winter will soon be upon us. How am I to survive? To feed Sophie and keep her warm?” She turned to look at him.

Their gazes came together. She wanted to look away but couldn’t.

He placed the wineglass in her hand, forced her fingers to coil around it. His touch felt hot against her cold hands, made her shiver. She remembered his office suddenly—and all that food stacked within it. “It is just wine,” he said again, and the scent of it, of black cherries and dark rich earth and a hint of lavender, wafted up to her nose, reminding her of the life she’d had before, the nights she and Antoine had sat out here, drinking wine.

She took a sip and gasped; she’d forgotten this simple pleasure.

“You are beautiful, Madame,” he said, his voice as sweet and rich as the wine. “Perhaps it has been too long since you heard that.”

Vianne got to her feet so fast she knocked into the table and spilled the wine. “You should not say such things, Herr Captain.”

“No,” he said, rising to his feet. He stood in front of her, his breath scented by red wine and spearmint gum. “I should not.”

“Please,” she said, unable even to finish the sentence.

“Your daughter will not starve this winter, Madame,” he said. Softly, as if it were their secret accord. “That is one thing you can be sure of.”

God help Vianne, it relieved her. She mumbled something—she wasn’t even sure what—and went back into the house, where she climbed into bed with Sophie, but it was a long time before she slept.

* * *

The bookshop had once been a gathering place for poets and writers and novelists and academics. Isabelle’s best childhood memories took place in these musty rooms. While Papa had worked in the back room on his printing press, Maman had read Isabelle stories and fables and made up plays for them to act out. They had been happy here, for a time, before Maman took sick and Papa started drinking.

There’s my Iz, come sit on Papa’s lap while I write your maman a poem.

Or maybe she had imagined that memory, constructed it from the threads of her own need and wrapped it tightly around her shoulders. She didn’t know anymore.

Now it was Germans who crowded into the shadowy nooks and crannies.

In the six weeks since Isabelle had reopened the shop, word had apparently spread among the soldiers that a pretty French girl could be found often at the shop’s counter.

They arrived in a stream, dressed in their spotless uniforms, their voices loud as they jostled one another. Isabelle flirted with them mercilessly but made sure never to leave the shop until it was empty. And she always left by the back door, wearing a charcoal cloak with the hood drawn up, even in the heat of summer. The soldiers might be jovial and smiling—boys, really, who talked of pretty fräuleins back home and bought French classics by “acceptable” authors for their families—but she never forgot that they were the enemy.

“M’mselle, you are so beautiful, and you are ignoring us. How will we survive?” A young German officer reached for her.

She laughed prettily and pirouetted out of his reach. “Now, M’sieur, you know I can show no favorites.” She sidled into place behind the sales counter. “I see you are holding a book of poetry. Certainly you have a girl back home who would love to receive such a thoughtful gift from you.”

His friends shoved him forward, all of them talking at once.

Isabelle was taking his money when the bell above the front door tinkled gaily.

Isabelle looked up, expecting to see more German soldiers, but it was Anouk. She was dressed, as usual, more for her temperament than the season, in all black. A fitted V-neck black sweater and straight skirt with a black beret and gloves. A Gauloises cigarette hung from her bright red lips, unlit.

She paused in the open doorway, with a rectangle of the empty alley behind her, a flash of red geraniums and greenery.

At the bell, the Germans turned.

Anouk let the door shut behind her. She casually lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply.

With half of the store length between them, and three German soldiers milling about, Isabelle’s gaze caught Anouk’s. In the weeks that Isabelle had been a courier (she’d gone to Blois, Lyon, and Marseilles, to Amboise and Nice, not to mention at least a dozen drops in Paris recently, all under her new name—Juliette Gervaise—using false papers that Anouk had slipped her one day in a bistro, right under the Germans’ noses), Anouk had been her most frequent contact and even with their age difference—which had to be at least a decade, maybe more—they had become friends in the way of women who live parallel lives—wordlessly but no less real for its silence. Isabelle had learned to see past Anouk’s dour expression and flat mouth, to ignore her taciturn demeanor. Behind all that, Isabelle thought there was sadness. A lot of it. And anger.