The Nightingale

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.”