The Nightingale(46)

Missing him. Longing for him. Worrying about him. Those were her nighttime journeys.

In a world now laden with bad news and silence, the one bit of good news was that Captain Beck had spent much of the summer away on one campaign or another. In his absence, the household settled into a routine of sorts. Isabelle did all that was asked of her without complaint.

It was October now, and chilly. Vianne found herself distracted as she walked home from school with Sophie. She could feel that one of her heels was coming loose; it made her slightly unsteady. Her black kidskin oxfords weren’t made for the kind of everyday use to which they’d been put in the past few months. The sole was beginning to pull away at the toe, which often caused her to trip. The worry about replacing things like shoes was never far away. A ration card did not mean there were shoes—or food—to be bought.

Vianne kept one hand on Sophie’s shoulder, both to steady her gait and to keep her daughter close. There were Nazi soldiers everywhere; riding in lorries and on motorcycles with machine-gun-mounted sidecars. They marched in the square, their voices raised in triumphant song.

A military lorry honked at them and they moved farther onto the sidewalk as a convoy rumbled past. More Nazis.

“Is that Tante Isabelle?” Sophie asked.

Vianne glanced in the direction of Sophie’s finger. Sure enough, Isabelle was coming out of an alley, clutching her basket. She looked … “furtive” was the only word that came to mind.

Furtive. At that, a dozen little pieces clicked into place. Tiny incongruities became a pattern. Isabelle had often left Le Jardin in the wee hours of the morning, much earlier than necessary. She had dozens of long-winded excuses for absences that Vianne had barely cared about. Heels that broke, hats that flew off in the wind and had to be chased down, a dog that frightened her and blocked her way.

Was she sneaking out to be with a boy?

“Tante Isabelle!” Sophie cried out.

Without waiting for a reply—or permission—Sophie darted into the street. She dodged a trio of German soldiers who were tossing a ball back and forth.

“Merde,” Vianne muttered. “Pardon,” she said, ducking around the soldiers and striding across the cobblestoned street.

“What did you get today?” she heard Sophie ask Isabelle as her daughter reached into the willow basket.

Isabelle slapped Sophie’s hand. Hard.

Sophie yelped and drew her hand back.

“Isabelle!” Vianne said harshly. “What’s wrong with you?”

Isabelle had the good grace to blush. “I am sorry. It’s just that I’m tired. I have been in queues all day. And for what? A veal jelly bone with barely any meat on it and a tin of milk. It’s disheartening. Still, I shouldn’t be rude. I’m sorry, Soph.”

“Perhaps if you didn’t sneak out so early in the morning you wouldn’t be tired,” Vianne said.

“I’m not sneaking out,” Isabelle said. “I’m going to the shops for food. I thought you wanted that of me. And by the way, we need a bicycle. These walks to town on bad shoes are killing me.”

Vianne wished she knew her sister well enough to read the look in her eyes. Was it guilt? Or worry or defiance? If she didn’t know better, she’d say it was pride.

Sophie linked arms with Isabelle as the three of them set off for home.

Vianne studiously ignored the changes to Carriveau—the Nazis taking up so much space, the posters on the limestone walls (the new anti-Jewish tracts were sickening), and the red and black swastika flags hanging above doorways and from balconies. People had begun to leave Carriveau, abandoning their homes to the Germans. The rumor was that they were going to the Free Zone, but no one knew for sure. Shops closed and didn’t reopen.

She heard footsteps coming up behind her and said evenly, “Let’s walk faster.”

“Madame Mauriac, if I may interrupt.”

“Good Lord, is he following you?” Isabelle muttered.

Vianne slowly turned around. “Herr Captain,” she said. People in the street watched Vianne closely, eyes narrowed in disapproval.

“I wanted to say that I will be late tonight and will, sorrowfully, not be there for supper,” Beck said.

“How terrible,” Isabelle said in a voice as sweet and bitter as burned caramel.

Vianne tried to smile, but really, she didn’t know why he’d stopped her. “I will save you something—”

“Nein. Nein. You are most kind.” He fell silent.