The Nightingale (18 page)

“Dismissed? Why?”

The Nazi agent flicked his pale hand as if he were batting at a fly. “Jews and communists and Freemasons. Others,” he sneered, “who are no longer permitted to teach school or work in civil service or in the judiciary.”

“But—”

The Nazi nodded at the French policeman and the two turned as one and marched into the school.

“Madame Mauriac?” someone said, tugging on her sleeve.

“Maman?” Sophie said, whining. “They can't do that, can they?”

“'Course they can,” Gilles said. “Damn Nazi bastards.”

Vianne should have disciplined him for his language, but she couldn't think of anything except the list of names she'd given to Beck.

*   *   *

Vianne wrestled with her conscience for hours. She'd continued teaching for much of the day, although she couldn't remember how. All that stuck in her mind was the look Rachel had given her as she walked out of the school with the other dismissed teachers. Finally, at noon, although they were already shorthanded at school, Vianne had asked another teacher to take over her classroom.

Now, she stood at the edge of the town square.

All the way here, she had planned what she would say, but when she saw the Nazi flag flying above the
hôtel de ville,
her resolve faltered. Everywhere she looked there were German soldiers, walking in pairs, or riding gorgeous, well-fed horses, or darting up the streets in shiny black Citröens. Across the square, a Nazi blew his whistle and used his rifle to force an old man to his knees.

Go, Vianne
.

She walked up the stone steps to the closed oak doors, where a fresh-faced young guard stopped her and demanded to know her business.

“I am here to see Captain Beck,” she said.

“Ah.” The guard opened the door for her and pointed up the wide stone staircase, making the number two with his fingers.

Vianne stepped into the main room of the town hall. It was crowded with men in uniforms. She tried not to make eye contact with anyone as she hurried across the lobby to the stairs, which she ascended under the watchful eyes of the Führer, whose portrait took up much of the wall.

On the second floor, she found a man in uniform and she said to him, “Captain Beck,
s'il vous plaît
?”

“
Oui,
Madame.” He showed her to a door at the end of the hall and rapped smartly upon it. At a response from within, he opened the door for her.

Beck was seated behind an ornate black and gold desk—obviously taken from one of the grand homes in the area. Behind him a portrait of Hitler and a collection of maps were affixed to the walls. On his desk was a typewriter and a roneo machine. In the corner stood a pile of confiscated radios, but worst of all was the food. There were boxes and boxes of food, heaps of cured meats and wheels of cheese stacked against the back wall.

“Madame Mauriac,” he said, rising quickly. “What a most pleasant surprise.” He came toward her. “What may I do for you?”

“It's about the teachers you fired at the school.”

“Not I, Madame.”

Vianne glanced at the open door behind them and took a step toward him, lowering her voice to say, “You told me the list of names was clerical in nature.”

“I am sorry. Truly. This is what I was told.”

“We need them at the school.”

“You being here, it is … dangerous perhaps.” He closed the small distance between them. “You do not want to draw attention to yourself, Madame Mauriac. Not here. There is a man…” He glanced at the door and stopped speaking. “Go, Madame.”

“I wish you hadn't asked me.”

“As do I, Madame.” He gave her an understanding look. “Now, go. Please. You should not be here.”

Vianne turned away from Captain Beck—and all that food and the picture of the Führer—and left his office. On her way down the stairs, she saw how the soldiers observed her, smiling to one another, no doubt joking about another Frenchwoman courting a dashing German soldier who had just broken her heart. But it wasn't until she stepped back out into the sunshine that she realized fully her mistake.

Several women were in the square, or near it, and they saw her step out of the Nazis' lair.

One of the women was Isabelle.

Vianne hurried down the steps, toward Hélène Ruelle, the baker's wife, who was delivering bread to the Kommandantur.

“Socializing, Madame Mauriac?” Hélène said archly as Vianne rushed past her.

Isabelle was practically running across the square toward her. With a defeated sigh, Vianne came to a standstill, waiting for her sister to reach her.

“What were you doing in there?” Isabelle demanded, her voice too loud, or maybe that was only to Vianne's ears.

“They fired the teachers today. No. Not all of them, just the Jews and the Freemasons and the communists.” The memory welled up in her, made her feel sick. She remembered the quiet hallway and the confusion among the teachers who remained. No one knew what to do, how to defy the Nazis.

“
Just
them, huh?” Isabelle said, her face tightening.

“I didn't mean it to sound that way. I meant to clarify. They didn't fire all the teachers.” Even to her own ears it sounded a feeble excuse, so she shut up.

“And this says nothing to explain your presence at their headquarters.”

“I … thought Captain Beck could help us. Help Rachel.”

“You went to Beck for a favor?”

“I had to.”

“Frenchwomen do not ask Nazis for help, Vianne.
Mon Dieu,
you must know this.”

“I know,” Vianne said defiantly. “But…”

“But what?”

Vianne couldn't hold it in anymore. “I gave him a list of names.”

Isabelle went very still. For an instant she seemed not to be breathing. The look she gave Vianne stung more than a slap across the face. “How could you do that? Did you give him Rachel's name?”

“I d-didn't know,” Vianne stammered. “How could I know? He said it was clerical.” She grabbed Isabelle's hand. “Forgive me, Isabelle. Truly. I didn't know.”

“It is not my forgiveness you need to seek, Vianne.”

Vianne felt a stinging, profound shame. How could she have been so foolish, and how in God's name could she make amends? She glanced at her wristwatch. Classes would be ending soon. “Go to the school,” Vianne said. “Get Sophie, Sarah, and take them home. There's something I need to do.”

“Whatever it is, I hope you've thought it through.”

“Go,” Vianne said tiredly.

*   *   *

The chapel of St. Jeanne was a small stone Norman church at the edge of town. Behind it, and within its medieval walls, lay the convent of the Sisters of St. Joseph, nuns who ran both an orphanage and a school.

Vianne went into the church, her footsteps echoing on the cold stone floor; her breath plumed in front of her. She took off her mittens just long enough to touch her fingertips to the frozen holy water. She made the sign of the cross and went to an empty pew; she genuflected and then knelt. Closing her eyes, she bent her head in prayer.

She needed guidance—and forgiveness—but for the first time in her life she could find no words for her prayer. How could she be forgiven for such a foolish, thoughtless act?

God would see her guilt and fear, and He would judge her. She lowered her clasped hands and climbed back up to sit on the wooden pew.

“Vianne Mauriac, is that you?”

Mother Superior Marie-Therese moved in beside Vianne and sat down. She waited for Vianne to speak. It had always been this way between them. The first time Vianne had come to Mother for advice, Vianne had been sixteen years old and pregnant. It had been Mother who comforted Vianne after Papa called her a disgrace; Mother who had planned for a rushed wedding and talked Papa into letting Vianne and Antoine have Le Jardin; Mother who'd promised Vianne that a child was always a miracle and that young love could endure.

“You know there is a German billeted at my house,” Vianne said finally.

“They are at all of the big homes and in every hotel.”

“He asked me which of the teachers at school were Jewish or communist or Freemasons.”

“Ah. And you answered him.”

“That makes me the fool Isabelle calls me, doesn't it?”

“You are no fool, Vianne.” She gazed at Vianne. “And your sister is quick to judge. That much I remember about her.”

“I ask myself if they would have found these names without my help.”

“They have dismissed Jews from positions all over town. Do you not know this? M'sieur Penoir is not the postmaster anymore, and Judge Braias has been replaced. I have had news from Paris that the headmistress of Collège Sévigné was forced to resign, as have all of the Jewish singers at the Paris Opera. Perhaps they needed your help, perhaps they did not. Certainly they would have found the names without your help,” Mother said in a voice that was both gentle and stern. “But that is not what matters.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think, as this war goes on, we will all have to look more deeply. These questions are not about them, but about
us
.”

Vianne felt tears sting her eyes. “I don't know what to do anymore. Antoine always took care of everything. The Wehrmacht and the Gestapo are more than I can handle.”

“Don't think about who they are. Think about who
you
are and what sacrifices you can live with and what will break you.”

“It's
all
breaking me. I need to be more like Isabelle. She is so certain of everything. This war is black and white for her. Nothing seems to scare her.”

“Isabelle will have her crisis of faith in this, too. As will we all. I have been here before, in the Great War. I know the hardships are just beginning. You must stay strong.”

“By believing in God.”

“Yes, of course, but not
only
by believing in God. Prayers and faith will not be enough, I'm afraid. The path of righteousness is often dangerous. Get ready, Vianne. This is only your first test. Learn from it.” Mother leaned forward and hugged Vianne again. Vianne held on tightly, her face pressed to the scratchy wool habit.

When she pulled back, she felt a little better.

Mother Superior stood, took Vianne's hand, and drew her to a stand. “Perhaps you could find the time to visit the children this week and give them a lesson? They loved it when you taught them painting. As you can imagine, there's a lot of grumbling about empty bellies these days. Praise the Lord the sisters have an excellent garden, and the goats' milk and cheese is a Godsend. Still…”

“Yes,” Vianne said. Everyone knew about how the belt-tightening felt, especially to children.

“You're not alone, and you're not the one in charge,” Mother said gently. “Ask for help when you need it, and give help when you can. I think that is how we serve God—and each other and ourselves—in times as dark as these.”

*   *   *

You're not the one in charge
.

Vianne contemplated Mother's words all the way home.

She had always taken great comfort in her faith. When Maman had first begun to cough, and then when that coughing deepened into a hacking shudder that left sprays of blood on handkerchiefs, Vianne had prayed to God for all that she needed. Help. Guidance. A way to cheat the death that had come to call. At fourteen she'd promised God anything—everything—if He would just spare her maman's life. With her prayers unanswered, she returned to God and prayed for the strength to deal with the aftermath—her loneliness, Papa's bleak, angry silences and drunken rages, Isabelle's wailing neediness.

Time and again, she had returned to God, pleading for help, promising her faith. She wanted to believe that she was neither alone nor in charge, but rather that her life was unfolding according to His plan, even if she couldn't see it.

Now, though, such hope felt as slight and bendable as tin.

She
was
alone and there was no one else in charge, no one but the Nazis.

She had made a terrible, grievous mistake. She couldn't take it back, however much she might hope for such a chance; she couldn't undo it, but a good woman would accept responsibility—and blame—and apologize. Whatever else she was or wasn't, whatever her failings, she intended to be a good woman.

And so she knew what she needed to do.

She knew it, and still when she came to the gate at Rachel's cottage, she found herself unable to move. Her feet felt heavy, her heart even more so.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. There was a shuffling of feet within and then the door opened. Rachel held her sleeping son in one arm and had a pair of dungarees slung over the other. “Vianne,” she said, smiling. “Come in.”

Vianne almost gave in to cowardice.
Oh, Rachel, I just stopped by to say hello.
Instead, she took a deep breath and followed her friend into the house. She took her usual place in the comfortable upholstered chair tucked in close to the blazing fire.

“Take Ari, I'll make us coffee.”

Vianne reached for the sleeping baby and took him in her arms. He snuggled close and she stroked his back and kissed the back of his head.

“We heard that some care packages were being delivered to prisoner of war camps by the Red Cross,” Rachel said a moment later, coming into the room carrying two cups of coffee. She set one down on the table next to Vianne. “Where are the girls?”

“At my house, with Isabelle. Probably learning how to shoot a gun.”

Rachel laughed. “There are worse skills to have.” She pulled the dungarees from her shoulder and tossed them onto a straw basket with the rest of her sewing. Then she sat down across from Vianne.

Vianne breathed in deeply of the sweet scent that was pure baby. When she looked up, Rachel was staring at her.