The Nightingale

She woke Sophie, listened to the story of her latest dream, and made her a breakfast of dry toast and peach jam. Then the two of them headed for town.

Vianne rushed Sophie as much as possible, but Sophie was in a foul mood and complained and dragged her feet. Thus, it was late afternoon by the time they reached the butcher’s shop. There was a queue that snaked out the door and down the street. Vianne took her place at the end and glanced nervously at the Germans in the square.

The queue shuffled forward. At the display window, Vianne noticed a new propaganda poster that showed a smiling German soldier offering bread to a group of French children. Beside it was a new sign that read: NO JEWS ALLOWED.

“What does that mean, Maman?” Sophie said, pointing to the sign.

“Hush, Sophie,” Vianne said sharply. “We have talked about this. Some things are no longer spoken of.”

“But Father Joseph says—”

“Hush,” Vianne said impatiently, giving Sophie’s hand a tug for emphasis.

The queue moved forward. Vianne stepped to the front and found herself staring at a gray-haired woman with skin the color and texture of oatmeal.

Vianne frowned. “Where is Madame Fournier?” she asked, offering her ration ticket for today’s meat. She hoped there was still some to be had.

“No Jews allowed,” the woman said. “We have a little smoked pigeon left.”

“But this is the Fourniers’ shop.”

“Not anymore. It’s mine now. You want the pigeon or not?”

Vianne took the small tin of smoked pigeon and dropped it in her willow basket. Saying nothing, she led Sophie outside. On the opposite corner, a German sentry stood guard in front of the bank, reminding the French people that the bank had been seized by the Germans.

“Maman,” Sophie whined. “It’s wrong to—”

“Hush.” Vianne grabbed Sophie’s hand. As they walked out of town and along the dirt road home, Sophie made her displeasure known. She huffed and sighed and grumbled.

Vianne ignored her.

When they reached the broken gate to Le Jardin, Sophie yanked free and spun to face Vianne. “How can they just take the butcher’s shop? Tante Isabelle would do something. You’re just afraid!”

“And what should I do? Storm into the square and demand that Madame Fournier get her shop back? And what would they do to me for that? You’ve seen the posters in town.” She lowered her voice. “They’re executing French people, Sophie. Executing them.”

“But—”

“No buts. These are dangerous times, Sophie. You need to understand that.”

Sophie’s eyes glazed with tears. “I wish Papa were here…”

Vianne pulled her daughter into her arms and held her tightly. “Me, too.”

They held each other for a long time, and then slowly separated. “We are going to make pickles today, how about that?”

“Oh. Fun.”

Vianne couldn’t disagree. “Why don’t you go pick cucumbers? I’ll get the vinegar started.”

Vianne watched her daughter run ahead, dodging through the heavily laden apple trees toward the garden. The moment she disappeared, Vianne’s worry returned. What would she do without money? The garden was producing well, so there would be fruit and vegetables, but what about the coming winter? How could Sophie stay healthy without meat or milk or cheese? How would they get new shoes? She was shaking as she made her way into the hot, blacked-out house. In the kitchen, she clutched the counter’s edge and bowed her head.

“Madame?”

She turned so fast she almost tripped over her own feet.

He was in the living room, sitting on the divan, with an oil lamp lit beside him, reading a book.

“Captain Beck.” She said his name quietly. She moved toward him, her shaking hands clasped together. “Your motorcycle is not out front.”