The Nightingale
As she braved the cold on rue Victor Hugo, she was so miserable and distracted by worry, it took her a moment to realize that Henri was walking beside her.
He glanced around the street, up and down, but in the wind and cold, no one was about. Shutters clattered and awnings shook. The bistro tables were empty.
He handed her a baguette. “The filling is unusual. My maman’s recipe.”
She understood. There were papers inside. She nodded.
“Bread with special filling is difficult to obtain these days. Eat it wisely.”
“And what if I need more … bread?”
“More?”
“So many hungry children.”
He stopped, turned to her, gave her a perfunctory kiss on each cheek. “Come see me again, Madame.”
She whispered in his ear. “Tell my sister I asked about her. We parted badly.”
He smiled. “I am constantly arguing with my brother, even in war. In the end, we’re brothers.”
Vianne nodded, hoping it was true. She placed the baguette in her basket, covering it with the scrap of linen, tucking it alongside the blancmange powder and oatmeal that had been available today. As she watched him walk away, the basket seemed to grow heavier. Tightening her grip, she headed down the street.
She was almost out of the town square when she heard it.
“Madame Mauriac. What a surprise.”
His voice was like oil pooling at her feet, slippery and clinging. She wet her lips and held her shoulders back, trying to look both confident and unconcerned. He had returned last evening, triumphant, crowing about how easy it had been to take over all of France. She had fed dinner to him and his men, pouring them endless glasses of wine—at the end of the meal, he had tossed the leftovers to the chickens. Vianne and the children had gone to bed hungry.
He was in his uniform, heavily decorated with swastikas and iron crosses, smoking a cigarette, blowing the smoke slightly to the left of her face. “You are done with your shopping for the day?”
“Such as it is, Herr Sturmbannführer. There was very little to be had today, even with our ration cards.”
“Perhaps if your men hadn’t been such cowards, you women wouldn’t be so hungry.”
She gritted her teeth in what she hoped passed for a smile.
He studied her face, which she knew was chalky pale. “Are you all right, Madame?”
“Fine, Herr Sturmbannführer.”
“Allow me to carry your basket. I will escort you home.”
She gripped the basket. “No, really, it’s not necessary—”
He reached a black-gloved hand toward her. She had no choice but to place the twisted willow handle in his hand.
He took the basket from her and began walking. She fell into step beside him, feeling conspicuous walking with an SS officer through the streets of Carriveau.
As they walked, Von Richter made conversation. He talked about the Allies’ certain defeat in North Africa, he talked about the cowardice of the French and the greediness of the Jews, he talked about the Final Solution as if it were a recipe to be exchanged among friends.
She could hardly make out his words over the roar in her head. When she dared to glance at the basket, she saw the baguette peeking out from beneath the red-and-white linen that covered it.
“You are breathing like a racehorse, Madame. Are you unwell?”
Yes. That was it.
She forced a cough, clamped a hand over her mouth. “I am sorry, Herr Sturmbannführer. I was hoping not to bother you with it, but sadly, I fear I caught the flu from that boy the other day.”