The Nightingale(164)

“Vianne,” he said in a voice she barely recognized. “I escaped.”

He was so changed; his face had sharpened and his hair had gone gray. White stubble covered his hollow cheeks and jawline, and he was so terribly thin. His left arm hung at an odd angle, as if it had been broken and badly reset.

He was thinking the same of her. She could see it in his eyes.

His name came out in a whisper of breath. “Antoine.” She felt the sting of tears and saw that he was crying, too. She went to him, kissed him, but when he drew back, he looked like a man she’d never seen before.

“I can do better,” he said.

She took his hand. More than anything she wanted to feel close to him, connected, but the shame of what she’d endured created a wall between them.

“I thought of you every night,” he said as they walked toward home. “I imagined you in our bed, thought of how you looked in that white nightgown … I knew you were as alone as I was.”

Vianne couldn’t find her voice.

“Your letters and packages kept me going,” he said.

At the broken gate in front of Le Jardin, he paused.

She saw the house through his eyes. The tilted gate, the fallen wall, the dead apple tree that grew dirty scraps of cloth instead of bright red fruit.

He pushed the gate out of the way. It clattered sideways, still connected to the crumbling post by a single unsteady screw and bolt. It creaked in protest at being touched.

“Wait,” she said.

She had to tell him now, before it was too late. The whole town knew Nazis had billeted with Vianne. He would hear gossip, for sure. If a baby was born in eight months, they would suspect.

“It was hard without you,” she began, trying to find her way. “Le Jardin is so close to the airfield. The Germans noticed the house on their way into town. Two officers billeted here—”

The front door burst open and Sophie screamed, “Papa!” and came running across the yard.

Antoine dropped awkwardly to one knee and opened his arms and Sophie ran into him.

Vianne felt pain open up and expand. He was home, just as she’d prayed for, but she knew now that it wasn’t the same; it couldn’t be. He was changed. She was changed. She placed a hand on her flat belly.

“You are so grown up,” Antoine said to his daughter. “I left a little girl and came home to a young woman. You’ll have to tell me what I missed.”

Sophie looked past him to Vianne. “I don’t think we should talk about the war. Any of it. Ever. It’s over.”

Sophie wanted Vianne to lie.

Daniel appeared in the doorway, dressed in short pants and a red knit turtleneck that had lost its shape and socks that sagged over his ill-fitting secondhand shoes. Clutching a picture book to his narrow chest, he jumped down from the step and came toward them, frowning.

“And who is this good-looking young man?” Antoine asked.

“I’m Daniel,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Sophie’s father.”

Daniel’s eyes widened. He dropped the book and threw himself at Antoine, yelling, “Papa! You’re home!”

Antoine scooped the boy into his arms and lifted him up.

“I’ll tell you,” Vianne said. “But let’s go inside now and celebrate.”

*

Vianne had fantasized about her husband’s return from war a thousand times. In the beginning, she’d imagined him dropping his suitcase at the sight of her and sweeping her into his big, strong arms.

And then Beck had moved into her home, making her feel things for a man—an enemy—that even now she refused to name. When he’d told her of Antoine’s imprisonment, she’d pared down her expectations. She’d imagined her husband thinner, more ragged looking, but still Antoine when he returned.

The man at her dinner table was a stranger. He hunched over his food and wrapped his arms around his plate, spooning marrow bone broth into his mouth as if the meal were a timed event. When he realized what he was doing, he flushed guiltily and gave them a mumbled apology.

Daniel talked constantly, while Sophie and Vianne studied the shadow version of Antoine. He jumped at every sound and flinched when he was touched, and the pain in his eyes was impossible to miss.

After supper, he put the children to bed while Vianne did the dishes alone. She was happy to let him go, which only increased her guilt. He was her husband, the love of her life, and yet, when he touched her, it was all she could do not to turn away. Now, standing at the window in her bedroom, she felt nervous as she awaited him.