The Nightingale(120)

Dogs barked in the distance. The Nazis were coming.

Didier glanced behind them. “We haven’t much time.”

“We’ll never make it to town,” Henri said.

Isabelle made a split-second decision. “I know somewhere close we can hide him.”

*

“This is not a good idea,” Ga?tan said.

“Hurry,” Isabelle said harshly. They were in the barn at Le Jardin now, with the door shut behind them. The airman lay slumped on the dirty floor, unconscious, his blood smearing across Didier’s coat and gloves. “Push the car forward.”

Henri and Didier pushed the Renault forward and then lifted the cellar door. It creaked in protest and fell forward and banged into the car’s fender.

Isabelle lit an oil lamp and held it in one hand as she felt her way down the wobbly ladder. Some of the provisions she’d left had been used.

She lifted the lamp. “Bring him down.”

The men exchanged a worried look.

“I don’t know about this,” Henri said.

“What choice do we have?” Isabelle snapped. “Now bring him down.”

Ga?tan and Henri carried the unconscious airman down into the dark, dank cellar and laid him on the mattress, which made a rustling, whispery sound beneath his weight.

Henri gave her a worried look. Then he climbed out of the cellar and stood above them. “Come on, Ga?tan.”

Ga?tan looked at Isabelle. “We’ll have to move the car back into place. You won’t be able to get out of here until we come for you. If something happened to us, no one would know you were here.” She could tell he wanted to touch her, and she ached for it. But they stood where they were, their arms at their sides. “The Nazis will be relentless in their search for this airman. If you’re caught…”

She tilted her chin, trying to hide how scared she was. “Don’t let me be caught.”

“You think I don’t want to keep you safe?”

“I know you do,” she said quietly.

Before he could answer, Henri said, “Come on, Ga?tan,” from above. “We need to find a doctor and figure out how to get them out of here tomorrow.”

Ga?tan stepped back. The whole world seemed to lie in that small space between them. “When we come back, we’ll knock three times and whistle, so don’t shoot us.”

“I’ll try not to,” she said.

He paused. “Isabelle…”

She waited, but he had no more to say, just her name, spoken with the kind of regret that had become common. With a sigh, he turned and climbed up the ladder.

Moments later, the trapdoor banged shut. She heard the boards overhead groan as the Renault was rolled back into place.

And then, silence.

Isabelle started to panic. It was the locked bedroom again; Madame Doom slamming the door, clicking the lock, telling her to shut up and quit asking for things.

She couldn’t get out of here, not even in an emergency.

Stop it. Be calm. You know what needs to be done. She went over to the shelving, pushed her father’s shotgun aside, and retrieved the box of medical supplies. A quick inventory revealed scissors, a needle and thread, alcohol, bandages, chloroform, Benzedrine tablets, and adhesive tape.

She knelt beside the airman and set the lamp down on the floor beside her. Blood soaked the chest of his flight suit, and it took great effort to peel the fabric away. When she did, she saw the giant, gaping hole in his chest and knew there was nothing she could do.

She sat beside him, holding his hand until he took one last, troubled breath; then his breathing stopped. His mouth slowly gaped open.

She gently eased the dog tags from around his neck. They would need to be hidden. She looked down at them. “Lieutenant Keith Johnson,” she said.

Isabelle blew out the lamp and sat in the dark with a dead man.

*

The next morning, Vianne dressed in denim overalls and a flannel shirt of Antoine’s that she had cut down to fit her. She was so thin these days that still the shirt overwhelmed her slim frame. She would have to take it in again. Her latest care package to Antoine sat on the kitchen counter, ready to be mailed.

Sophie had had a restless night, so Vianne let her sleep. She went downstairs to make coffee and almost ran into Captain Beck, who was pacing the living room. “Oh. Herr Captain. I am sorry.”

He seemed not to hear her. She had never seen him look so agitated. His usually pomaded hair was untended; a lock kept falling in his face and he cursed repeatedly as he brushed it away. He was wearing his gun, which he never did in the house.