The Nightingale

It took every ounce of nerve she had to walk slowly. The minute she was out of town, she started to run. As she neared the airfield, she was sweating and out of breath, but she didn’t slow. She ran all the way into her yard. With the gate clattering shut behind her, she bent forward, gasping hard, holding the stitch in her side, trying to catch her breath.

“M’mselle Rossignol, are you unwell?”

Isabelle snapped upright.

Captain Beck appeared beside her. Had he been there before her?

“Captain,” she said, working hard to still the racing of her heart. “A convoy went past … I … uh, rushed to get out of their way.”

“A convoy? I didn’t see that.”

“It was a while back. And I am … silly sometimes. I lost track of time, talking to a friend, and, well…” She gave him her prettiest smile and patted her butchered hair as if it mattered to her that she looked nice for him.

“How were the queues today?”

“Interminable.”

“Please, allow me to carry your basket inside.”

She looked down at her basket, saw the tiniest white paper corner visible under the linen cloth. “No, I—”

“Ah, I insist. We are gentlemen, you know.”

His long, well-manicured fingers closed around the willow handle. As he turned toward the house, she remained at his side. “I saw a large group gathering at the town hall this afternoon. What are the Vichy police doing here?”

“Ah. Nothing to concern you.” He waited at the front door for her to open it. She fumbled nervously with the center-mounted knob, turned it, and opened the door. Although he had every right to go in at will, he waited to be invited in, as if he were a guest.

“Isabelle, is that you? Where have you been?” Vianne rose from the divan.

“The queues were awful today.”

Sophie popped up from the floor by the fireplace, where she’d been playing with Bébé. “What did you get today?”

“Ham hocks,” Isabelle said, glancing worriedly at the basket in Beck’s hand.

“That’s all?” Vianne said. “What about the cooking oil?”

Sophie sank back to the rug on the floor, clearly disappointed.

“I will put the hocks in the pantry,” Isabelle said, reaching for the basket.

“Please, allow me,” Beck said. He was staring at Isabelle, watching her closely. Or maybe it only felt like that.

Vianne lit a candle and handed it to Isabelle. “Don’t waste it. Hurry.”

Beck was very gallant as he walked through the shadowy kitchen and opened the door to the cellar.

Isabelle went down first, lighting the way. The wooden steps creaked beneath her feet until she stepped down onto the hard-packed dirt floor and into the subterranean chill. The wooden shelves seemed to close in around them as Beck came up beside her. The candle flame sent light gamboling in front of them.

She tried to still the trembling in her hand as she reached for the paper-wrapped ham hocks. She placed them on the shelf beside their dwindling supplies.

“Bring up three potatoes and a turnip,” Vianne called down. Isabelle jumped a little at the sound.

“You seem nervous,” Beck said. “Is that the right word, M’mselle?”

The candle sputtered between them. “There were a lot of dogs in town today.”

“The Gestapo. They love their shepherds. There is no reason for this to concern you.”