The Nightingale

Vianne stood outside the Hôtel Bellevue in the pouring rain. The windows of the hotel were fogged; through the haze she could see a crowd of gray-green field uniforms.

Come on, Vianne, you’re in it now.

She squared her shoulders and opened the door. A bell tinkled gaily overhead, and the men in the room stopped what they were doing and turned to look at her. Wehrmacht, SS, Gestapo. She felt like a lamb going to slaughter.

At the desk, Henri looked up. Seeing her, he came out from behind the front desk and moved swiftly through the crowd toward her.

He took her by the arm, hissing, “Smile.” She tried to comply. She wasn’t sure whether she succeeded.

He led her to the front desk, where he let go of her arm. He was saying something—laughing as if at some joke—as he took his place by the heavy black phone and cash register. “Your father, correct?” he said loudly. “A room for two nights?”

She nodded numbly.

“Here, let me show you the room we have available,” he said at last.

She followed him out of the lobby and into the narrow hallway. They went past a small table set with fresh fruit (only the Germans could afford such an extravagance) and a water closet that was empty. At the end of the corridor, he led her up a narrow set of stairs and into a room so small there was only a single bed and a blacked-out window.

He closed the door behind them. “You shouldn’t be here. I sent you word that Isabelle was fine.”

“Oui, merci.” She took a deep breath. “I need identity papers. You were the only person I could think of who might be able to help me.”

He frowned. “That’s a dangerous request, Madame. For whom?”

“A Jewish child in hiding.”

“Hiding where?”

“I don’t think you want to know that, do you?”

“No. No. Is it a safe place?”

She shrugged, her answer obvious in the silence. Who knew what was safe anymore?

“I hear Sturmbannführer Von Richter is billeted with you. He was here first. He’s a dangerous man. Vindictive and cruel. If he caught you—”

“What can we do, Henri, just stand by and watch?”

“You remind me of your sister,” he said.

“Believe me, I am not a brave woman.”

Henri was quiet for a long while. Then he said, “I’ll work on getting you the blank papers. You’ll have to learn to forge them yourself. I am too busy to add to my duties. Practice by studying your own.”

“Thank you.” She paused, looking at him, remembering the note he had delivered to her all those months ago—and the assumptions Vianne had made about her sister at the time. She knew now that Isabelle had been doing dangerous work from the beginning. Important work. Isabelle had shielded Vianne from this knowledge to protect her, even though it meant looking like a fool. She had traded on the fact that Vianne would easily believe the worst of her.

Vianne was ashamed of herself for believing the lie so easily. “Don’t tell Isabelle I am doing this. I want to protect her.”

Henri nodded.

“Au revoir,” Vianne said.

On her way out, she heard him say, “Your sister would be proud of you.” Vianne neither slowed nor responded. Ignoring the German soldiers’ catcalling, she made her way out of the hotel and headed for home.

* * *

Now all of France was occupied by the Germans, but it made little difference in Vianne’s daily life. She still spent all day in one queue or another. Her biggest problem was Daniel. It still seemed smart to hide him from the villagers, even though her lie about an adoption seemed unquestioned when she’d told it (and she’d told it to everyone she could find, but people were too busy surviving to care, or maybe they guessed the truth and applauded it, who knew).

She left the children at home now, hidden away behind locked doors. It meant that she was always jittery in town, nervous. Today, when she had gotten all that there was to be had for her rations, she rewrapped the woolen scarf around her throat and left the butcher’s shop.