The Nightingale

“Hauptmann Beck is missing.”

“Missing. Are you certain?”

“When is the last time you saw him, Madame?”

She frowned. “I hardly keep track of his movements, but if pressed … I would say two nights ago. He was quite agitated.”

“Agitated?”

“It was the downed airman. He was most unhappy that he had not been found. Herr Captain believed someone was hiding him.”

“Someone?”

Vianne forced herself not to look away; nor did she tap her foot nervously on the floor or scratch the itch that was making its uncomfortable way across her neck. “He searched all day for the airman. When he came home, he was … agitated is the only word I know to use. He drank an entire bottle of brandy and broke a few things in my house in his rage. And then…” She paused, letting her frown deepen.

“And then?”

“I’m sure it means nothing at all.”

He slammed his palm down on the table so hard the light shuddered. “What?”

“Herr Captain suddenly said, ‘I know where he’s hiding,’ and grabbed his sidearm and left my home, slamming the door shut behind him. I saw him jump on his motorcycle and take off down the road at an unsafe speed, and then … nothing. He never returned. I assumed he was busy at the Kommandantur. As I said, his comings and goings are not my concern.”

The man drew a long drag on his cigarette. The tip glowed red and then slowly faded to black. Ash rained down on the desk. He studied her from behind a veil of smoke. “A man would not want to leave a woman as beautiful as yourself.”

Vianne didn’t move.

“Well,” he said at last, dropping his cigarette butt to the floor. He stood abruptly and stomped on the still-lit cigarette, grinding on it with his boot heel. “I suspect the young Hauptmann was not as skilled with a gun as he should have been. The Wehrmacht,” he said, shaking his head. “Often they are a disappointment. Disciplined but not … eager.”

He came out from behind the desk and walked toward Vianne. As he neared, she stood. Politeness demanded it. “The Hauptmann’s misfortune is my fortune.”

“Oh?”

His gaze moved down her throat to the pale skin above her breasts. “I need a new place to billet. The Hôtel Bellevue is unsatisfactory. I believe your house will do nicely.”

* * *

When Vianne stepped out of the town hall, she felt like a woman who’d just washed ashore. She was unsteady on her feet and trembling slightly, her palms were damp, her forehead itchy. Everywhere she looked in the square were soldiers; these days the black SS uniforms were predominant. She heard someone yell “Halt!” and she turned, saw a pair of women in ratty coats with yellow stars on their chests being shoved to their knees by a soldier with a gun. The soldier grabbed one of the two and dragged her to her feet while the older one screamed. It was Madame Fournier, the butcher’s wife. Her son, Gilles, yelled, “You can’t take my maman!” and started to surge at two French policemen who were nearby.

A gendarme grabbed the boy, yanked hard enough to make him stop. “Don’t be a fool.”

Vianne didn’t think. She saw her former student in trouble and she went to him. He was just a boy, for God’s sake. Sophie’s age. Vianne had been his teacher since before he could read. “What are you doing?” she demanded to know, realizing a second too late that she should have tempered her voice.

The policeman turned to look at her. Paul. He was even fatter than the last time she’d seen him. His face had puffed out enough to make his eyes as small and slitted as sewing needles. “Stay out of this, Madame,” Paul said.

“Madame Mauriac,” Gilles cried, “they’re taking my maman to the train! I want to go with her!”

Vianne looked at Gilles’s mother, Madame Fournier, the butcher’s wife, and saw defeat in her eyes.

“Come with me, Gilles,” Vianne said without really thinking.

“Merci,” Madame Fournier whispered.

Paul yanked Gilles close again. “Enough. The boy is making a scene. He is coming with us.”

“No!” Vianne said. “Paul, please, we are all French.” She hoped the use of his name would remind him that before all of this they’d been a community. She’d taught his daughters. “The boy is a French citizen. He was born here!”

“We don’t care where he was born, Madame. He’s on my list. He goes.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you want to lodge a complaint?”