The Nightingale(35)

Another unnerving comment. Vianne nodded politely and left him alone in the room, closing the door behind her.

“Tell me he’s not staying,” Isabelle said, rushing at her.

“He says he is,” Vianne said tiredly, pushing back the hair from her eyes. She realized just now that she was trembling. “I know how you feel about these Nazis. Just make sure he doesn’t know it. I won’t let you put Sophie at risk with your childish rebellion.”

“Childish rebellion! Are you—”

The guest room door opened, silencing Isabelle.

Captain Beck strode confidently toward them, smiling broadly. Then he saw the radio in the room and he paused. “Do not worry, ladies. I am most pleased to deliver your radio to the Kommandant.”

“Really?” Isabelle said. “You consider this a kindness?”

Vianne felt a tightening in her chest. There was a storm brewing in Isabelle. Her sister’s cheeks had gone pale, her lips were drawn in a thin, colorless line, her eyes were narrowed. She was glaring at the German as if she could kill him with a look.

“Of course.” He smiled, looking a little confused. The sudden silence seemed to unnerve him. Suddenly he said, “You have beautiful hair, M’mselle.” At Isabelle’s frown, he said, “This is an appropriate compliment, yes?”

“Do you think so?” Isabelle said, her voice low.

“Quite lovely.” Beck smiled.

Isabelle walked into the kitchen and came back with a pair of boning shears.

His smile faded. “Am I misunderstood?”

Vianne said, “Isabelle, don’t,” just as Isabelle gathered up her thick blond hair and fisted it. Staring grimly at Captain Beck’s handsome face, she hacked off her hair and handed the long blond tail to him. “It must be verboten for us to have anything beautiful, is it not, Captain Beck?”

Vianne gasped. “Please, sir. Ignore her. Isabelle is a silly, prideful girl.”

“No,” Beck said. “She is angry. And angry people make mistakes in war and die.”

“So do conquering soldiers,” Isabelle snapped.

Beck laughed at her.

Isabelle made a sound that was practically a snarl and pivoted on her heel. She marched up the stairs and slammed the door shut so hard the house shook.

*

“You will want to speak to her now, I warrant,” Beck said. He looked at Vianne in a way that made it seem as if they understood each other. “Such … theatrics in the wrong place could be most dangerous.”

Vianne left him standing in her living room and went upstairs. She found Isabelle sitting on Sophie’s bed, so angry she was shaking.

Scratches marred her cheeks and throat; a reminder of what she’d seen and survived. And now her hair was hacked off, the ends uneven.

Vianne tossed Isabelle’s belongings onto the unmade bed and closed the door behind her. “What in the name of all that’s holy were you thinking?”

“I could kill him in his sleep, just slit his throat.”

“And do you think they would not come looking for a captain who had orders to billet here? Mon Dieu, Isabelle.” She took a deep breath to calm her racing nerves. “I know there are problems between us, Isabelle. I know I treated you badly as a child—I was too young and scared to help you—and Papa treated you worse. But this is not about us now, and you can’t be the girl who acts impetuously anymore. It is about my daughter now. Your niece. We must protect her.”

“But—”

“France has surrendered, Isabelle. Certainly this fact has not escaped you.”

“Didn’t you hear Général de Gaulle? He said—”

“And who is this Général de Gaulle? Why should we listen to him? Maréchal Pétain is a war hero and our leader. We have to trust our government.”

“Are you joking, Vianne? The government in Vichy is collaborating with Hitler. How can you not understand this danger? Pétain is wrong. Does one follow a leader blindly?”

Vianne moved toward Isabelle slowly, half afraid of her now. “You don’t remember the last war,” she said, clasping her hands to still them. “I do. I remember the fathers and brothers and uncles who didn’t come home. I remember hearing children in my class cry quietly when bad news came by telegram. I remember the men who came home on crutches, their pant legs empty and flapping, or an arm gone, or a face ruined. I remember how Papa was before the war—and how different he was when he came home, how he drank and slammed doors and screamed at us, and then when he stopped. I remember the stories about Verdun and Somme and a million Frenchmen dying in trenches that ran red with blood. And the German atrocities, don’t forget that part of it. They were cruel, Isabelle.”