The Nightingale (11 page)

There was a staticky crackle and then an unfamiliar voice said, “This is the BBC. Général de Gaulle is speaking to you.”

“Vianne!” Isabelle yelled toward the kitchen. “Who is Général de Gaulle?”

Vianne came into the living room, drying her hands on her apron. “What is—”

“Shush,” Isabelle snapped.

“… the leaders who have been at the head of the French army for many years have formed a government. On the pretext that our army has been defeated, this government has approached the enemy with a view to ceasing hostilities.”

Isabelle stared at the small wooden radio, transfixed. This man they'd never heard of spoke directly to the people of France, not at them as Pétain had done, but to them in an impassioned voice. “Pretext of defeat. I
knew
it!”

“… we certainly have been, and still are, submerged by the mechanical strength of the enemy, both on land and in the air. The tanks, the aeroplanes, the tactics of the Germans astounded our generals to such an extent that they have been brought to the pain which they are in today. But has the last word been said? Has all hope disappeared? Is the defeat final?”

“Mon Dieu,”
Isabelle said. This was what she'd been waiting to hear. There
was
something to be done, a fight to engage in. The surrender wasn't final.

“Whatever happens,” de Gaulle's voice went on, “the flame of French resistance must not and shall not die.”

Isabelle hardly noticed that she was crying. The French hadn't given up. Now all Isabelle had to do was figure out how to answer this call.

*   *   *

Two days after the Nazis occupied Carriveau, they called a meeting for the late afternoon. Everyone was to attend. No exceptions. Even so, Vianne had had to fight with Isabelle to get her to come. As usual, Isabelle did not think ordinary rules pertained to her and she wanted to use defiance to show her displeasure. As if the Nazis cared what one impetuous eighteen-year-old girl thought of their occupation of her country.

“Wait here,” Vianne said impatiently when she'd finally gotten Isabelle and Sophie out of the house. She gently closed the broken gate behind them. It gave a little click of closure.

Moments later, Rachel appeared in the road, coming toward them, with the baby in her arms and Sarah at her side.

“That's my best friend, Sarah,” Sophie said, gazing up at Isabelle.

“Isabelle,” Rachel said with a smile. “It is good to see you again.”

“Is it?” Isabelle said.

Rachel moved closer to Isabelle. “That was a long time ago,” Rachel said gently. “We were young and stupid and selfish. I'm sorry we treated you badly. Ignored you. That must have been very painful.”

Isabelle's mouth opened, closed. For once, she had nothing to say.

“Let's go,” Vianne said, irritated that Rachel had said to Isabelle what Vianne had not been able to. “We shouldn't be late.”

Even this late in the day, the weather was unseasonably warm, and in no time, Vianne felt herself beginning to sweat. In town, they joined the grumbling crowd that filled the narrow cobblestoned street from storefront to storefront. The shops were closed and the windows were shuttered, even though the heat would be unbearable when they got home. Most of the display cases were empty, which was hardly surprising. The Germans ate so much; even worse, they left food on their plates in the cafés. Careless and cruel, it was, with so many mothers beginning to count the jars in their cellars so that they could dole out every precious bite to their children. Nazi propaganda was everywhere, on windows and shop walls; posters that showed smiling German soldiers surrounded by French children with captions designed to encourage the French to accept their conquerors and become good citizens of the Reich.

As the crowd approached the town hall, the grumbling stopped. Up close, it felt even worse, this following of instructions, walking blindly into a place with guarded doors and locked windows.

“We shouldn't go in,” Isabelle said.

Rachel, who stood between the sisters, towering over both of them, made a tsking sound. She resettled the baby in her arms, patting his back in a comforting rhythm. “We have been summoned.”

“All the more reason to hide,” Isabelle said.

“Sophie and I are going in,” Vianne said, although she had to admit that she felt a prickly sense of foreboding.

“I have a bad feeling about it,” Isabelle muttered.

Like a thousand-legged centipede, the crowd moved forward into the great hall. Tapestries had once hung from these walls, leftover treasure from the time of kings, when the Loire Valley had been the royal hunting ground, but all that was gone now. Instead there were swastikas and propagandist posters on the walls—
Trust in the Reich!
—and a huge painting of Hitler.

Beneath the painting stood a man wearing a black field tunic decorated with medals and iron crosses, knee breeches, and spit-shined boots. A red swastika armband circled his right bicep.

When the hall was full, the soldiers closed the oak doors, which creaked in protest. The officer at the front of the hall faced them, shot his right arm out, and said,
“Heil Hitler.”

The crowd murmured softly among themselves. What should they do?
“Heil Hitler,”
a few said grudgingly. The room began to smell of sweat and leather polish and cigarette smoke.

“I am Sturmbannführer Weldt of the Geheime Staatspolizei. The Gestapo,” the man in the black uniform said in heavily accented French. “I am here to carry out the terms of the armistice on behalf of the fatherland and the Führer. It will be of little hardship on those of you who obey the rules.” He cleared his throat.

“The rules: All radios are to be turned in to us at the town hall, immediately, as are all guns, explosives, and ammunition. All operational vehicles will be impounded. All windows will be equipped with material for blackout, and you shall use it. A nine
P.M.
curfew is instantly in effect. No lights shall be on after dusk. We will control all food, whether grown or imported.” He paused, looked out over the mass of people standing in front of him. “Not so bad, see? We will live together in harmony, yes? But know this. Any act of sabotage or espionage or resistance will be dealt with swiftly and without mercy. The punishment for such behavior is death by execution.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket and extracted a single cigarette. Lighting it, he stared out at the people so intently it seemed he was memorizing each face. “Also, although many of your ragged, cowardly soldiers are returning, we must inform you that the men taken prisoner by us shall remain in Germany.”

Vianne felt confusion ripple through the audience. She looked at Rachel, whose square face was blotchy in places—a sign of anxiety. “Marc and Antoine will come home,” Rachel said stubbornly.

The Sturmbannführer went on. “You may leave now, as I am sure we understand each other. I will have officers here until eight forty-five tonight. They will receive your contraband. Do not be late. And…” He smiled good-naturedly. “Do not risk your lives to keep a radio. Whatever you keep—or hide—we will find, and if we find it … death.” He said it so casually, and wearing such a fine smile, that for a moment, it didn't sink in.

The crowd stood there a moment longer, uncertain whether it was safe to move. No one wanted to be seen as taking the first step, and then suddenly they were moving, pack-like, toward the open doors that led them outside.

“Bastards,” Isabelle said as they moved into an alley.

“And I was so sure they'd let us keep our guns,” Rachel said, lighting up a cigarette, inhaling deeply and exhaling in a rush.

“I'm keeping our gun, I can tell you,” Isabelle said in a loud voice. “And our radio.”

“Shhh,” Vianne said.

“Général de Gaulle thinks—”

“I don't want to hear that foolishness. We have to keep our heads down until our men come home,” Vianne said.

“Mon Dieu,”
Isabelle said sharply. “You think your husband can fix this?”

“No,” Vianne said. “I believe
you
will fix it, you and your Général de Gaulle, of whom no one has ever heard. Now, come. While you are hatching a plan to save France, I need to tend to my garden. Come on, Rachel, let us dullards be away.”

Vianne held tightly to Sophie's hand and walked briskly ahead. She did not bother to glance back to see if Isabelle was following. She knew her sister was back there, hobbling forward on her damaged feet. Ordinarily Vianne would keep pace with her sister, out of politeness, but just now she was too mad to care.

“Your sister may not be so wrong,” Rachel said as they passed the Norman church on the edge of town.

“If you take her side in this, I may be forced to hurt you, Rachel.”

“That being said, your sister may not be entirely wrong.”

Vianne sighed. “Don't tell her that. She's unbearable already.”

“She will have to learn propriety.”

“
You
teach her. She has proven singularly resistant to improving herself or listening to reason. She's been to two finishing schools and still can't hold her tongue or make polite conversation. Two days ago, instead of going to town for meat, she hid the valuables and created a hiding place for us. Just in case.”

“I should probably hide mine, too. Not that we have much.”

Vianne pursed her lips. There was no point in talking further about this. Soon, Antoine would be home and he would help keep Isabelle in line.

At the gate to Le Jardin, Vianne said good-bye to Rachel and her children, who kept walking.

“Why do we have to give them our radio, Maman?” Sophie asked. “It belongs to Papa.”

“We don't,” Isabelle said, coming up beside them. “We will hide it.”

“We will not hide it,” Vianne said sharply. “We will do as we are told and keep quiet and soon Antoine will be home and he will know what to do.”

“Welcome to the Middle Ages, Sophie,” Isabelle said.

Vianne yanked her gate open, forgetting a second too late that the refugees had broken it. The poor thing clattered on its single hinge. It took all of Vianne's fortitude to act as if it hadn't happened. She marched up to the house, opened the door, and immediately turned on the kitchen light. “Sophie,” she said, unpinning her hat. “Would you please set the table?”

Vianne ignored her daughter's grumbling—it was to be expected. In only a few days, Isabelle had taught her niece to challenge authority.

Vianne lit the stove and started cooking. When a creamy potato and lardon soup was simmering, she began to clean up. Of course Isabelle was nowhere around to help. Sighing, she filled the sink with water to wash dishes. She was so intent on her task that it took her a moment to notice that someone was knocking on the front door. Patting her hair, she walked into the living room, where she found Isabelle rising from the divan, a book in her hands. Reading while Vianne cooked and cleaned. Naturally.

“Are you expecting anyone?” Isabelle asked.

Vianne shook her head.

“Maybe we shouldn't answer,” Isabelle said. “Pretend we're not here.”

“It's most likely Rachel.”

There was another knock at the door.

Slowly, the doorknob turned, and the door creaked open.

Yes. Of course it was Rachel. Who else would—

A German soldier stepped into her home.

“Oh, my pardons,” the man said in terrible French. He removed his military hat, tucked it in his armpit, and smiled. He was a good-looking man—tall and broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, with pale skin and light gray eyes. Vianne guessed he was roughly her age. His field uniform was precisely pressed and looked brand new. An iron cross decorated his stand-up collar. Binoculars hung from a strap around his neck and a chunky leather utility belt cinched his waist. Behind him, through the branches of the orchard, she saw his motorcycle parked on the side of the road. A sidecar was attached to it, mounted with machine guns.

“Mademoiselle,” he said to Vianne, giving her a swift nod as he clicked his boots together.

“Madame,” she corrected him, wishing she sounded haughty and in control, but even to her own ears she sounded scared. “Madame Mauriac.”

“I am Hauptmann—Captain—Wolfgang Beck.” He handed her a piece of paper. “My French is not so good. You will excuse my ineptitude, please.” When he smiled, deep dimples formed in his cheeks.

She took the paper and frowned down at it. “I don't read German.”

“What do you want?” Isabelle demanded, coming to stand by Vianne.

“Your home is most beautiful and very close to the airfield. I noticed it upon our arrival. How many bedrooms have you?”

“Why?” Isabelle said at the same time Vianne said, “Three.”

“I will billet here,” the captain said in his bad French.

“Billet?” Vianne said. “You mean … to stay?”

“
Oui,
Madame.”

“Billet? You? A man? A
Nazi
? No. No.” Isabelle shook her head. “
No.
”

The captain's smile neither faded nor fell. “You were to town,” he said, looking at Isabelle. “I saw you when we arrived.”

“You noticed me?”

He smiled. “I am sure every red-blooded man in my regiment noticed you.”

“Funny you would mention blood,” Isabelle said.

Vianne elbowed her sister. “I am sorry, Captain. My young sister is obstinate on occasion. But I am married, you see, and my husband is at the front, and there is my sister and my daughter here, so you must see how inappropriate it would be to have you here.”

“Ah, so you would rather leave the house to me. How difficult that must be for you.”

“Leave?” Vianne said.

“I believe you aren't understanding the captain,” Isabelle said, not taking her gaze from him. “He's moving into your home, taking it over, really, and that piece of paper is a requisition order that makes it possible. And Pétain's armistice, of course. We can either make room for him or abandon a home that has been in our family for generations.”