The Nightingale

“There are no parties to attend,” he said, “and all your university boys are gone.”

“This is really what you think of me,” she said. Then she changed the subject. “I stopped by the bookshop.”

“The Nazis,” he said in response. “They stormed in one day and pulled out everything by Freud, Mann, Trotsky, Tolstoy, Maurois—all of them, they burned—and the music, too. I would rather lock the doors than sell only what I am allowed to. So, I did just that.”

“So, how are you making a living? Your poetry?”

He laughed. It was a bitter, slurred sound. “This is hardly a time for gentler pursuits.”

“Then, how are you paying for electricity and food?”

Something changed in his face. “I’ve got a good job at the Hôtel de Crillon.”

“In service?” She could hardly credit him serving beer to German brutes.

He glanced away.

Isabelle got a sick feeling in her stomach. “For whom do you work, Papa?”

“The German high command in Paris,” he said.

Isabelle recognized that feeling now. It was shame. “After what they did to you in the Great War—”

“Isabelle—”

“I remember the stories Maman told us about how you’d been before the war and how it had broken you. I used to dream that someday you’d remember that you were a father, but all that was a lie, wasn’t it? You’re just a coward. The minute the Nazis return you race to aid them.”

“How dare you judge me and what I’ve been through? You’re eighteen years old.”

“Nineteen,” she said. “Tell me, Papa, do you get our conquerors coffee or hail them taxis on their way to Maxim’s? Do you eat their lunch leftovers?”

He seemed to deflate before her eyes; age. She felt unaccountably regretful for her sharp words even though they were true and deserved. But she couldn’t back down now. “So we are agreed? I will move into my old room and live here. We need barely speak if that is your condition.”

“There is no food here in the city, Isabelle; not for us Parisians anyway. All over town are signs warning us not to eat rats and these signs are necessary. People are raising guinea pigs for food. You will be more comfortable in the country, where there are gardens.”

“I am not looking for comfort. Or safety.”

“What are you looking for in Paris, then?”

She realized her mistake. She’d set a trap with her foolish words and stepped right into it. Her father was many things; stupid was not one of them. “I’m here to meet a friend.”

“Tell me we are not talking about some boy. Tell me you are smarter than that.”

“The country was dull, Papa. You know me.”

He sighed, poured another drink from the bottle. She saw the telltale glaze come into his eyes. Soon, she knew, he would stumble away to be alone with whatever it was he thought about. “If you stay, there will be rules.”

“Rules?”

“You will be home by curfew. Always and without exception. You will leave me my privacy. I can’t stomach being hovered over. You will go to the shops each morning and see what our ration cards will get us. And you will find a job.” He paused, looked at her, his eyes narrowed. “And if you get yourself in trouble like your sister did, I will throw you out. Period.”

“I am not—”

“I don’t care. A job, Isabelle. Find one.”

He was still talking when she turned on her heel and walked away. She went into her old bedroom and shut the door. Hard.

She had done it! For once, she’d gotten her way. Who cared that he’d been mean and judgmental? She was here. In her bedroom, in Paris, and staying.