The Nightingale

Vianne didn’t know whether to be relieved or concerned when Isabelle yanked her bike over the pile of stone and leaned it against the tree. Already there was no barrier between her property and the road anymore.

Isabelle looked beautiful, even with her face pink from the exertion of riding her bicycle and shiny with perspiration. Glossy blond waves framed her face. Her faded red dress clung to her body in all the right places.

The soldiers stopped to stare at her, the rolled-up Aubusson rug from the living room slung between them.

Beck removed his military cap. He said something to the soldiers who were carrying the rolled-up carpet, and they hurried toward the lorry.

“You’ve torn down our wall?” Isabelle said.

“The Sturmbannführer wants to be able to see all houses from the road. Somebody is distributing anti-German propaganda. We will find and arrest him.”

“You think harmless pieces of paper are worth all of this?” Isabelle asked.

“They are far from harmless, Mademoiselle. They encourage terrorism.”

“Terrorism must be avoided,” Isabelle said, crossing her arms.

Vianne couldn’t look away from Isabelle. There was something going on. Her sister seemed to be drawing her emotions back, going still, like a cat preparing to pounce. “Herr Captain,” Isabelle said after a while.

“Oui, M’mselle?”

Soldiers walked past them, carrying out the breakfast table.

Isabelle let them pass and then walked to the captain. “My papa is ill.”

“He is?” Vianne said. “Why don’t I know this? What’s wrong with him?”

Isabelle ignored Vianne. “He has asked that I come to Paris to nurse him. But…”

“He wants you to nurse him?” Vianne said, incredulous.

Beck said, “You need a travel pass to leave, M’mselle. You know this.”

“I know this.” Isabelle seemed to barely breathe. “I … thought perhaps you would procure one for me. You are a family man. Certainly you understand how important it is to answer a father’s call?”

Strangely, as Isabelle spoke, the captain turned slightly to look at Vianne, as if she were the one who mattered.

“I could get you a pass, oui,” the captain said. “For a family emergency such as this.”

“I am grateful,” Isabelle said.

Vianne was stunned. Did Beck not see how her sister was manipulating him—and why had he looked at Vianne when making his decision?

As soon as Isabelle got what she wanted, she returned to her bicycle. She took hold of the handlebars and walked it toward the barn. The rubber wheels bumped and thumped on the uneven ground.

Vianne rushed after her. “Papa’s ill?” she said when she caught up with her sister.

“Papa’s fine.”

“You lied? Why?”

Isabelle’s pause was slight but perceptible. “I suppose there is no reason to lie. It’s all out in the open now. I have been sneaking out on Friday mornings to meet Henri and now he has asked me to go to Paris with him. He has a lovely little pied-à-terre in the Montmarte, apparently.”

“Are you mad?”

“I’m in love, I think. A little. Maybe.”

“You are going to cross Nazi-occupied France to spend a few nights in Paris in the bed of a man whom you might love. A little.”