The Nightingale(117)

She unbuttoned her coat and draped it over the end of the bed. Reaching into the lining, she pulled out an envelope and handed it to Henri. “Here you go,” she said, giving him money that had come from MI9. His hotel was one of the key safe houses their group maintained. Isabelle loved that they housed Brits and Yanks and resisters right under the Nazis’ noses. Tonight she would be a guest in this smallest of rooms.

She pulled out a chair from behind a scarred writing desk and sat down. “The meeting is set for tonight?”

“Eleven P.M. In the abandoned barn on the Angeler farm.”

“What’s it about?”

“I’m not in the know.” He sat down on the end of the bed. She could tell by the look on his face that he was going to get serious and she groaned.

“I hear the Nazis are desperate to find the Nightingale. Word is that they’re trying to infiltrate the escape route.”

“I know this, Henri.” She lifted one eyebrow. “I hope you are not going to tell me that it’s dangerous.”

“You are going too often, Isabelle. How many trips have you made?”

“Twenty-four.”

Henri shook his head. “No wonder they are desperate to find you. We hear word of another escape route, running through Marseille and Perpignan, that is having success, too. There is going to be trouble, Isabelle.”

She was surprised by how much his concern moved her and how nice it was to hear her own name. It felt good to be Isabelle Rossignol again, even if only for a few moments, and to sit with someone who knew her. So much of her life was spent hiding and on the run, in safe houses with strangers.

Still, she saw no reason to talk about this. The escape route was invaluable and worth the risk they were taking. “You are keeping an eye on my sister, oui?”

“Oui.”

“The Nazi still billets there?”

Henri’s gaze slid away from hers.

“What is it?”

“Vianne was fired from her teaching post some time ago.”

“Why? Her students love her. She’s an excellent teacher.”

“The rumor is that she questioned a Gestapo officer.”

“That doesn’t sound like Vianne. So she has no income. What is she living on?”

Henri looked uncomfortable. “There is gossip.”

“Gossip?”

“About her and the Nazi.”

*

All summer long, Vianne hid Rachel’s son in Le Jardin. She made sure never to venture out with him, not even to garden. Without papers, she couldn’t pretend he was anyone other than Ariel de Champlain. She had to let Sophie stay at home with the child, and so each journey to town was a nerve-wracking event that couldn’t be over soon enough. She told everyone she could think of—shopkeepers, nuns, villagers—that Rachel had been deported with both her children.

It was all she could think of to do.

Today, after a long, slogging day standing in line only to be told there was nothing left, Vianne left town feeling defeated. There were rumors of more deportations, more roundups, happening all over France. Thousands of French Jews were being held at internment camps.

At home, she hung her wet cloak on an exterior hook by the front door. She had no real hope that it would dry out before tomorrow, but at least it wouldn’t drip all over her floor. She stepped out of her muddy rubber boots by the door and went into the house. As usual, Sophie was standing by the door, waiting for her.

“I’m fine,” Vianne said.

Sophie nodded solemnly. “So are we.”

“Will you give Ari a bath while I make supper?”

Sophie scooped Ari into her arms and left the room.

Vianne uncoiled the scarf from her hair and hung it up. Then she set her basket in the sink to dry out and went down to the pantry, where she chose a sausage and some undersized, softening potatoes and onions.

Back in the kitchen, she lit the stove and preheated her black cast-iron skillet. Adding a drop of the precious oil, she browned the sausage.

Vianne stared down at the meat, breaking it up with her wooden spoon, watching it turn from pink to gray to a nice, crusty brown. When it was crispy, she added cubed potatoes and diced onions and garlic. The garlic popped and browned and released its scent into the air.

“That smells delicious.”

“Herr Captain,” she said quietly. “I didn’t hear your motorcycle.”

“M’mselle Sophie let me in.”