The Nightingale(173)

Antoine was standing near the back door with two men; both wore threadbare black suits and black berets. One carried a tattered briefcase.

“Sophie, take care of your brother for a minute,” Antoine said to the children. “We have something to discuss with these men.” He moved in beside Vianne, placing a hand at the small of her back, helping her to her feet, urging her forward. They filed into the house in a silent line.

When the door closed behind them, the men turned to face Vianne.

“I am Nathaniel Lerner,” said the older of the two men. He had gray hair and skin the color of tea-stained linen. Age spots discolored large patches of his cheeks.

“And I am Phillipe Horowitz,” said the other man. “We are from the OSE.”

“Why are you here?” Vianne asked.

“We are here for Ari de Champlain,” Phillipe said in a gentle voice. “He has relatives in America—Boston, in fact—and they have contacted us.”

Vianne might have collapsed if Antoine had not held her steady.

“We understand you rescued nineteen Jewish children all by yourself. And with German officers billeted in your home. That’s impressive, Madame.”

“Heroic,” Nathaniel added.

Antoine placed his hand on her shoulder and at that, his touch, she realized how long she’d been silent. “Rachel was my best friend,” she said quietly. “I tried to help her sneak into the Free Zone before the deportation, but…”

“Her daughter was killed,” Lerner said.

“How do you know that?”

“It is our job to collect stories and to reunite families,” he answered. “We have spoken to several women who were in Auschwitz with Rachel. Sadly, she lived less than a month there. Her husband, Marc, was killed in Stalag 13A. He was not as lucky as your husband.”

Vianne said nothing. She knew the men were giving her time and she both appreciated and hated it. She didn’t want to accept any of this. “Daniel—Ari—was born a week before Marc left for the war. He has no memory of either of his parents. It was the safest way—to let him believe he was my son.”

“But he is not your son, Madame.” Lerner’s voice was gentle but the words were like the lash of a whip.

“I promised Rachel I would keep him safe,” she said.

“And you have. But now it is time for Ari to return to his family. To his people.”

“He won’t understand,” she said.

“Perhaps not,” Lerner said. “Still.”

Vianne looked at Antoine for help. “We love him. He’s part of our family. He should stay with us. You want him to stay, don’t you, Antoine?”

Her husband nodded solemnly.

She turned to the men. “We could adopt him, raise him as our own. But Jewish, of course. We will tell him who he is and take him to synagogue and—”

“Madame,” Lerner said with a sigh.

Phillipe approached Vianne, took her hands in his. “We know you love him and he loves you. We know that Ari is too young to understand and that he will cry and miss you—perhaps for years.”

“But you want to take him anyway.”

“You look at the heartbreak of one boy. I am here because of the heartbreak of my people. You understand?” His face sagged, his mouth curved into a small frown. “Millions of Jews were killed in this war, Madame. Millions.” He let that sink in. “An entire generation is gone. We need to band together now, those few of us who are left; we need to rebuild. One boy with no memory of who he was may seem a small thing to lose, but to us, he is the future. We cannot let you raise him in a religion that is not yours and take him to synagogue when you remember. Ari needs to be who he is, and to be with his people. Surely his mother would want that.”

Vianne thought of the people she’d seen at the H?tel Lutetia, those walking skeletons with their haunted eyes, and the endless wall of photographs.

Millions had been killed.

A generation lost.

How could she keep Ari from his people, his family? She would fight to the death for either of her children, but there was no opponent for her to fight, just loss on both sides.

“Who is taking him?” she said, not caring that her voice cracked on the question.

“His mother’s first cousin. She has an eleven-year-old girl and a six-year-old son. They will love Ari as their own.”

Vianne couldn’t find the strength even to nod, or wipe the tears from her eyes. “Maybe they will send me pictures?”