The Nightingale

The nun stepped back, her habit swishing on the stone floor. “I will see. You two take a seat in the garden?”

Vianne nodded. “Merci.” She and Jean Georges made their way through the cold cloisters. At the end of one arched corridor, they turned left and went into the garden. It was good sized, and square, with frosted brown grass and a marble lion’s head fountain and several stone benches placed here and there. Vianne took a seat on one of the cold benches out of the rain, and pulled the boy up beside her.

She didn’t have long to wait.

“Vianne,” Mother said, coming forward, her habit dragging on the grass, her fingers closed around the large crucifix that hung from a chain around her neck. “How good it is to see you. It’s been too long. And who is this young man?”

The boy looked up. “Is my maman here?”

Vianne met Mother Superior’s even gaze with one of her own. “His name is Jean Georges Ruelle, Mother. I would speak to you alone if we could.”

Mother clapped her hands and a young nun appeared to take the boy away. When they were alone, Mother Superior sat down beside Vianne.

Vianne couldn’t corral her thoughts and so a silence fell between them.

“I am sorry about your friend, Rachel.”

“And so many others,” Vianne said.

Mother nodded. “We have heard terrible rumors coming from Radio London about what is happening in the camps.”

“Perhaps our Holy Father—”

“He is silent on this matter,” Mother said, her voice heavy with disappointment.

Vianne took a deep breath. “Hélène Ruelle and her elder son were deported today. Jean Georges is alone. His mother … left him with me.”

“Left him with you?” Mother paused. “It is dangerous to have a Jewish child in your home, Vianne.”

“I want to protect him,” she said quietly.

Mother looked at her. She was silent so long that Vianne’s fear began to put down roots, grow. “And how would you accomplish this?” she asked at last.

“Hide him.”

“Where?”

Vianne looked at Mother, saying nothing.

Mother’s face drained of color. “Here?”

“An orphanage. What better place?”

Mother Superior stood and then sat. Then she stood again, her hands moved to the cross, held it. Slowly, she sat down again. Her shoulders sagged and then straightened when her decision was made. “A child in our care needs papers. Baptismal certificates—I can … get those, of course, but identity papers…”

“I will get them,” Vianne said, although she had no idea if it was possible.

“You know that it is illegal to hide Jews now. The punishment is deportation if you’re lucky, and lately, I believe no one is lucky in France.”

Vianne nodded.

Then Mother Superior said, “I will take the boy. And I … could make room for more than one Jewish child.”

“More?”

“Of course there are more, Vianne. I will speak to a man I know in Girot. He works for the Œuvre de Secours aux Enfants—the Help the Children Fund. I expect he will know many families and children in hiding. I will tell him to expect you.”

“M-me?”