The Nightingale

He surged at her exuberantly. He was too big for her to carry, so she hugged him tightly and then withdrew. She retrieved the only clothes that fit him—a pair of canvas pants that had been made from painter’s cloth she’d found in the barn and a sweater she’d knitted with precious blue wool. When he was dressed, she took his hand and led him into the living room. The front door was standing open.

Bells were ringing. Church bells. It sounded as if music were playing somewhere. “La Marseillaise”? On a Tuesday at nine in the morning?

Outside, Sophie stood beneath the apple tree. A line of Nazis marched past the house. Moments later came the vehicles. Tanks and lorries and automobiles rumbled past Le Jardin, one after another, churning up dust.

A black Citroën pulled over to the side of the road and parked. Von Richter got out and came to her, his boots dirty, his eyes hidden behind black sunglasses, his mouth drawn into a thin, angry line.

“Madame Mauriac.”

“Herr Sturmbannführer.”

“We are leaving your sorry, sickly little town.”

She didn’t speak. If she had, she would have said something that could get her killed.

“This war isn’t over,” he said, but whether this was for her benefit or his own, she wasn’t sure.

His gaze flicked past Sophie and landed on Daniel.

Vianne stood utterly still, her face impassive.

He turned to her. The newest bruise on her cheek made him smile.

“Von Richter!” someone in the entourage yelled. “Leave your French whore behind.”

“That’s what you were, you know,” he said.

She pressed her lips together to keep from speaking.

“I’ll forget you.” He leaned forward. “I wonder if you can say the same.”

He marched into the house and came out again, carrying his leather valise. Without a glance at her, he returned to his automobile. The door slammed shut behind him.

Vianne reached for the gate to steady herself.

“They’re leaving,” Sophie said.

Vianne’s legs gave out. She crumpled to her knees. “He’s gone.”

Sophie knelt beside Vianne and held her tightly.

Daniel ran barefooted through the patch of dirt between them. “Me, too!” he yelled. “I want a hug!” He threw himself into them so hard they toppled over, fell into the dry grass.

* * *

In the month since the Germans had left Carriveau, there was good news everywhere about the Allied victories, but the war hadn’t ended. Germany hadn’t surrendered. The blackout had been softened to a “dim out,” so the windows let in light again—a surprising gift. But still Vianne couldn’t relax. Without Von Richter on her mind (she would never say his name out loud again, not as long as she lived, but she couldn’t stop thinking about him), she was obsessed with worry for Isabelle and Rachel and Antoine. She wrote Antoine a letter almost every day and stood in line to mail them, even though the Red Cross reported that no mail was getting through. They hadn’t heard from him in more than a year.

“You’re pacing again, Maman,” Sophie said. She was seated at the divan, snuggled up with Daniel, a book open between them. On the fireplace mantel were a few of the photographs Vianne had brought in from the cellar in the barn. It was one of the few things she could think to do to make Le Jardin a home again.

“Maman?”

Sophie’s voice brought Vianne back to herself.

“He’s coming home,” Sophie said. “And so is Tante Isabelle.”

“Mais oui.”

“What will we tell Papa?” Sophie asked, and Vianne knew by the look in Sophie’s eyes that she’d wanted to ask this for a while.