The Nightingale(182)

Now, soon, they will be waiting for me, my sister and my daughter.

I tear my gaze away from the name tag and look out at the audience again. They don’t care that I’m teary-eyed. “Isabelle and my father, Julien Rossignol, and their friends ran the Nightingale escape route. Together, they saved over one hundred and seventeen men.”

I swallow hard. “Isabelle and I didn’t talk much during the war. She stayed away from me to protect me from the danger of what she was doing. So I didn’t know everything Isabelle had done until she came back from Ravensbrück.”

I wipe my eyes. Now there are no squeaking chairs, no tapping feet. The audience is utterly still, staring up at me. I see Julien in the back, his handsome face a study in confusion. All of this is news to him. For the first time in his life, he understands the gulf between us, rather than the bridge. I am not simply his mother now, an extension of him. I am a woman in whole and he doesn’t quite know what to make of me. “The Isabelle who came back from the concentration camp was not the woman who’d survived the bombing at Tours or crossed the Pyrenees. The Isabelle who came home was broken and sick. She was unsure of so many things, but not about what she’d done.” I look out at the people seated in front of me. “On the day before she died, she sat in the shade beside me and held my hand and said, ‘V, it’s enough for me.’ I said, ‘What’s enough?’ and she said, ‘My life. It’s enough.’

“And it was. I know she saved some of the men in this room, but I know that you saved her, too. Isabelle Rossignol died both a hero and a woman in love. She couldn’t have made a different choice. And all she wanted was to be remembered. So, I thank you all, for giving her life meaning, for bringing out the very best in her, and for remembering her all these years later.”

I let go of the podium and step back.

The audience surges to their feet, clapping wildly. I see how many of the older people are crying and it strikes me suddenly: These are the families of the men she saved. Every man saved came home to create a family: more people who owed their lives to a brave girl and her father and their friends.

After that, I am sucked into a whirlwind of gratitude and memories and photographs. Everyone in the room wants to thank me personally and tell me how much Isabelle and my father meant to them. At some point, Julien settles himself along my side and becomes a bodyguard of sorts. I hear him say, “It looks like we have a lot to talk about,” and I nod and keep moving, clinging to his arm. I do my best to be my sister’s ambassador, collecting the thanks she deserves.

We are almost through the crowd—it is thinning now, people are making their way to the bar for wine—when I hear someone say, “Hello, Vianne,” in a familiar voice.

Even with all the years that have passed, I recognize his eyes. Ga?tan. He is shorter than I remember, a little stooped in the shoulders, and his tanned face is deeply creased by both weather and time. His hair is long, almost to his shoulders, and as white as gardenias, but still I would know him anywhere.

“Vianne,” he says. “I wanted you to meet my daughter.” He reaches back for a classically beautiful young woman wearing a chic black sheath and vibrant pink neck scarf. She comes toward me, smiling as if we are friends.

“I’m Isabelle,” she says.

I lean heavily into Julien’s hand. I wonder if Ga?tan knows what this small remembrance would mean to Isabelle.

Of course he does.

He leans close and kisses each of my cheeks, whispering, “I loved her all of my life,” as he draws back.

We talk for a few more minutes, about nothing really, and then he leaves.

Suddenly I am tired. Exhausted. I pull free of my son’s possessive grip and move past the crowd to the quiet balcony. There, I step out into the night. Notre Dame is lit up, its glow coloring the black waves of the Seine. I can hear the river lapping against stone and boat lines creaking.

Julien comes up beside me.

“So,” he says. “Your sister—my aunt—was in a concentration camp in Germany because she helped to create a route to save downed airmen, and this route meant that she hiked across the Pyrenees mountains?”

It is as heroic as he makes it sound.

“Why have I never heard anything about all this—and not just from you? Sophie never said a word. Hell, I didn’t even know that people escaped over the mountains or that there was a concentration camp just for women who resisted the Nazis.”

“Men tell stories,” I say. It is the truest, simplest answer to his question. “Women get on with it. For us it was a shadow war. There were no parades for us when it was over, no medals or mentions in history books. We did what we had to during the war, and when it was over, we picked up the pieces and started our lives over. Your sister was as desperate to forget it as I was. Maybe that was another mistake I made—letting her forget. Maybe we should have talked about it.”