The Nightingale

“Mesdames,” Beck said, doffing his military cap, wedging it under his armpit. “I am sorry to disturb your ladies’ time, but I have come to tell you something, Madame Mauriac.” He put the slightest emphasis on you. It made it sound as if they shared secrets.

“Oh? And what is it, Herr Captain?” Vianne asked.

He glanced left to right and then leaned slightly toward Vianne. “Madame de Champlain should not be at home tomorrow morning,” he said quietly.

Vianne thought perhaps he’d translated his intention poorly. “Pardon?”

“Madame de Champlain should not be at home tomorrow,” he repeated.

“My husband and I own this house,” Rachel said. “Why should I leave?”

“It will not matter, this ownership of the house. Not tomorrow.”

“My children—” Rachel started.

Beck finally looked at Rachel. “Your children are of no concern to us. They were born in France. They are not on the list.”

List.

A word that was feared now. Vianne said quietly, “What are you telling us?”

“I am telling you that if she is here tomorrow, she will not be here the day after.”

“But—”

“If she were my friend, I would find a way to hide her for a day.”

“Only for a day?” Vianne asked, studying him closely.

“That is all I came to say, Mesdames, and I should not have done it. I would be … punished if word got out. Please, if you are questioned about this later, do not mention my visit.” He clicked his heels together, pivoted, and walked away.

Rachel looked at Vianne. They had heard rumors of roundups in Paris—women and children being deported—but no one believed it. How could they? The claims were crazy, impossible—tens of thousands of people taken from their homes in the middle of the night by the French police. And all at once? It couldn’t be true. “Do you trust him?”

Vianne considered the question. She surprised herself by saying, “Yes.”

“So what do I do?”

“Take the children to the Free Zone. Tonight.” Vianne couldn’t believe she was thinking it, let alone saying it.

“Last week Madame Durant tried to cross the frontier and she was shot and her children deported.”

Vianne would say the same thing in Rachel’s place. It was one thing for a woman to run by herself; it was another thing to risk your children’s lives. But what if they were risking their lives by staying here?

“You’re right. It’s too dangerous. But I think you should do as Beck advises. Hide. It is only for a day. Then perhaps we’ll know more.”

“Where?”

“Isabelle prepared for this and I thought she was a fool.” She sighed. “There’s a cellar in the barn.”

“You know that if you are caught hiding me—”

“Oui,” Vianne said sharply. She didn’t want to hear it said aloud. Punishable by death. “I know.”

* * *

Vianne slipped a sleeping draught into Sophie’s lemonade and put the child to bed early. (Not the sort of thing that made one feel like a good mother, but neither was it all right to take Sophie with them tonight or let her waken alone. Bad choices. That was all there were anymore.) While waiting for her daughter to fall asleep, Vianne paced. She heard every clatter of wind against the shutters, every creaky settling of the timbers of the old house. At just past six o’clock, she dressed in her old gardening overalls and went downstairs.

She found Beck sitting on her divan, an oil lamp lit beside him. He was holding a small, framed portrait of his family. His wife—Hilda, Vianne knew—and his children, Gisela and Wilhelm.