The Nightingale
“It was such a beautiful day. I decided to walk from town.” He rose. She saw that he had recently had a haircut, and that he’d nicked himself shaving this morning. A tiny red cut marred his pale cheek. “You look upset. Perhaps it is because you have not been sleeping well since your sister left.”
She looked at him in surprise.
“I hear you walking around in the dark.”
“You’re awake, too,” she said stupidly.
“I often cannot sleep, either. I think of my wife and children. My son is so young. I wonder if he will know me at all.”
“I think the same about Antoine,” she said, surprising herself with the admission. She knew she shouldn’t be so open with this man—the enemy—but just now she was too tired and scared to be strong.
Beck stared down at her, and in his eyes, she saw the loss they shared. Both of them were a long way from the people they loved, and lonelier for it.
“Well. I mean not to intrude on your day, of course, but I have some news for you. With much research, I have discovered that your husband is in an Oflag in Germany. A friend of mine is a guard there. Your husband is an officer. Did you know this? No doubt he was valiant on the battlefield.”
“You found Antoine? He’s alive?”
He held out a crumpled, stained envelope. “Here is a letter he has written to you. And now you may send him care packages, which I believe would cheer him most immeasurably.”
“Oh … my.” She felt her legs weaken.
He grasped her, steadied her, and led her over to the divan. As she slumped to the seat, she felt tears welling in her eyes. “Such a kind thing to do,” she whispered, taking the letter from him, pressing it to her chest.
“My friend delivered the letter to me. From now on, my apologies, you will correspond on the postcards only.”
He smiled at her and she had the strangest feeling that he knew about the lengthy letters she concocted in her head at night.
“Merci,” she said, wishing it weren’t such a small word.
“Au revoir, Madame,” he said, then turned on his heel and left her alone.
The crumpled, dirty letter shook in her grasp; the letters of her name blurred and danced as she opened it.
Vianne, my beloved,
First, do not worry about me. I am safe and fed well enough. I am unhurt. Truly. No bullet holes in me.
In the barracks, I have been lucky enough to claim an upper bunk, and it gives me some privacy in a place of too many men. Through a small window, I can see the moon at night and the spires of Nuremburg. But it is the moon that makes me think of you.
Our food is enough to sustain us. I have grown used to pellets of flour and small pieces of potato. When I get home, I look forward to your cooking. I dream of it—and you and Sophie—all the time.
Please, my beloved, don’t fret. Just stay strong and be there for me when the time comes for me to leave this cage. You are my sunlight in the dark and the ground beneath my feet. Because of you, I can survive. I hope that you can find strength in me, too, V. That because of me, you will find a way to be strong.
Hold my daughter tightly tonight, and tell her that somewhere far away, her papa is thinking of her. And tell her I will return.
I love you, Vianne.
P.S. The Red Cross is delivering packages. If you could send me my hunting gloves, I would be very happy.
The winters here are cold.
Vianne finished the letter and immediately began reading it again.
* * *
Exactly a week after her arrival in Paris, Isabelle was to meet the others who shared her passion for a free France, and she was nervous as she walked among the sallow-faced Parisians and well-fed Germans toward an unknown destination. She had dressed carefully this morning in a fitted blue rayon dress with a black belt. She’d set her hair last night and combed it out into precise waves this morning, pinning it back from her face. She wore no makeup; an old convent school blue beret and white gloves completed the outfit.
I am an actress and this is a role, she thought as she walked down the street. I am a schoolgirl in love sneaking out to meet a boy …