The Nightingale
“Paul has gotten you a position,” Anouk said. “You start at nine. When you are finished, go to your father’s apartment. He will be waiting for you.”
“Oui.”
“It might be dangerous.”
Isabelle shrugged. “What isn’t?”
* * *
That night, Isabelle walked across town to the prefecture of police. There was a hum in the pavement beneath her feet, the sound of vehicles moving somewhere close by. A lot of them.
“You, there!”
Isabelle stopped. Smiled.
A German walked up to her, his rifle at the ready. His gaze dropped to her chest, looking for a yellow star.
“I am to work tonight,” she said, indicating the prefecture of police building in front of her. Although the windows were blacked out, the place was busy. There were German Wehrmacht officers and French gendarmes milling about, going in and out of the building, which was an oddity at this late hour. In the courtyard was a long row of buses parked end to end. The drivers stood together in a huddle, smoking and talking.
The policeman cocked his head. “Go.”
Isabelle clutched the collar of her drab brown coat. Although it was warm out, she didn’t want to draw attention to herself tonight. One of the best ways to disappear in plain sight was to dress like a wren—brown, brown, and more brown. She had covered her blond hair with a black scarf, tied in a turban style with a big knot in front, and had used no cosmetics, not even lipstick.
She kept her head down as she walked through a throng of men in French police uniforms. Just inside the building, she stopped.
It was a huge space with staircases on either side and office doors spaced every few feet, but tonight it looked like a sweatshop, with hundreds of women seated at desks pressed close together. Telephones rang nonstop and French police officers moved in a rush.
“You are here to help with the sorting?” asked a bored French gendarme at the desk nearest the door.
“Oui.”
“I’ll find you a place to work. Come with me.” He led her around the perimeter of the room.
Desks were spaced so closely together that Isabelle had to turn sideways to make her way down the narrow aisle to the empty desk he’d indicated. When she sat down and scooted close, she was elbow-to-elbow with the women on either side of her. The surface of her desk was covered with card boxes.
She opened the first box and saw the stack of cards within. She pulled out the first one and stared at it.
STERNHOLZ, ISSAC
12 avenue Rast
4th arrondissement
Sabotier (clog maker)
It went on to list his wife and children.
“You are to separate the foreign-born Jews,” said the gendarme, who she hadn’t noticed had followed her.
“Pardon?” she said, taking out another card. This one was for “Berr, Simone.”
“That box there. The empty one. Separate the Jews born in France from those born elsewhere. We are only interested in foreign-born Jews. Men, women, and children.”
“Why?”
“They’re Jews. Who cares? Now get to work.”
Isabelle turned back around in her seat. She had hundreds of cards in front of her, and there were at least a hundred women in this room. The sheer scale of this operation was impossible to comprehend. What could it possibly mean?