Текст книги "The Nightingale"

Автор книги: Kristin Hannah

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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 31 страниц)

TWENTY-THREE

In the last few moments before dawn, Vianne sat near the mound of fresh-turned earth. She wanted to pray, but her faith felt far away, the remnant of another woman’s life.

Slowly, she got to her feet.

As the sky turned lavender and pink—ironically beautiful—she went to her backyard, where the chickens clucked and flapped their wings at her unexpected arrival. She stripped off her bloody clothes, left them in a heap on the ground, and washed up at the pump. Then she took a linen nightdress from the clothesline, put it on, and went inside.

She was bone tired and soul weary, but there was no way she could rest. She lit an oil lamp and sat on the divan. She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Antoine beside her. What would she say to him now? I don’t know the right thing to do anymore. I want to protect Sophie and keep her safe, but what good is safety if she has to grow up in a world where people disappear without a trace because they pray to a different God? If I am arrested …

The door to the guest room opened. She heard Beck coming toward her. He was dressed in his uniform and freshly shaved, and she knew instinctively that he’d been waiting for her to return. Worrying about her.

“You’re returned,” he said.

She was sure he saw some spatter of blood or dirt somewhere on her, at her temple or on the back of her hand. There was an almost imperceptible pause; she knew he was waiting for her to look at him, to communicate what had happened, but she just sat there. If she opened her mouth she might start screaming. Or if she looked at him she might cry, might demand to know how it was that children could be shot in the dark for nothing.

“Maman?” Sophie said, coming into the room. “You were not in bed when I woke up,” she said. “I got scared.”

She clasped her hands in her lap. “I am sorry, Sophie.”

“Well,” Beck said. “I must leave. Good-bye.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Sophie came closer. She looked a little bleary-eyed. Tired. “You’re scaring me, Maman. Is something wrong?”

Vianne closed her eyes. She would have to give her daughter this terrible news, and then what? She would hold her daughter and stroke her head and let her cry and she would have to be strong. She was so tired of being strong. “Come, Sophie,” she said, rising. “Let’s sleep a little longer if we can.”

*   *   *

That afternoon, in town, Vianne expected to see soldiers gathering, rifles drawn, police wagons parked in the town square, dogs straining on leashes, black-clad SS officers; something to indicate trouble.

But there was nothing out of the ordinary.

She and Sophie remained in Carriveau all day, standing in queues Vianne knew were a waste of time, walking down one street after another. At first, Sophie talked incessantly. Vianne barely noticed. How could she concentrate on normal conversation with Rachel and Ari hiding in her cellar and Sarah gone?

“Can we leave now, Maman?” Sophie said at nearly three o’clock. “There’s nothing more to be had. We’re wasting our time.”

Beck must have made a mistake. Or perhaps he was simply being overly cautious.

Certainly they would not round up and arrest Jewish people at this hour. Everyone knew that arrests were never made during mealtimes. The Nazis were much too punctual and organized for that—and they loved their French food and wine.

“Oui, Sophie. We can go home.”

They headed out of town. Vianne remained on alert, but if anything, the road was less crowded than usual. The airfield was quiet.

“Can Sarah come over?” Sophie asked as Vianne eased the broken gate open.

Sarah.

Vianne glanced down at Sophie.

“You look sad,” her daughter said.

“I am sad,” Vianne said quietly.

“Are you thinking of Papa?”

Vianne drew in a deep breath and released it. Then she said gently, “Come with me,” and led Sophie to a spot beneath the apple tree, where they sat together.

“You are scaring me, Maman.”

Vianne knew she was handling it badly already, but she had no idea how to do this. Sophie was too old for lies and too young for the truth. Vianne couldn’t tell her that Sarah had been shot trying to cross the border. Her daughter might say the wrong thing to the wrong person.

“Maman?”

Vianne cupped Sophie’s thin face in her hands. “Sarah died last night,” she said gently.

“Died? She wasn’t sick.”

Vianne steeled herself. “It happens that way sometimes. God takes you unexpectedly. She’s gone to Heaven. To be with her grandmère, and yours.”

Sophie pulled away, got to her feet, backed away. “Do you think I’m stupid?”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“She’s Jewish.”

Vianne hated what she saw in her daughter’s eyes right now. There was nothing young in her gaze—no innocence, no naïveté, no hope. Not even grief. Just anger.

A better mother would shape that anger into loss and then, at last, into the kind of memory of love one can sustain, but Vianne was too empty to be a good mother right now. She could think of no words that weren’t a lie or useless.

She ripped away the lacy trim at the end of her sleeve. “You see that bit of red yarn in the tree branch over our heads?”

Sophie looked up. The yarn had lost a bit of color, faded, but still it showed up against the brown branches and green leaves and unripened apples. She nodded.

“I put that there to remember your papa. Why don’t you tie one for Sarah and we’ll think of her every time we are outside.”

“But Papa is not dead!” Sophie said. “Are you lying to—”

“No. No. We remember the missing as much as the lost, don’t we?”

Sophie took the thready coil of lace in her hand. Looking a little unsteady on her feet, she tied the strand onto the same branch.

Vianne ached for Sophie to come back, turn to her, reach out for a hug, but her daughter just stood there, staring at the scrap of lace, her eyes bright with tears. “It won’t always be like this” was all Vianne could think of to say.

“I don’t believe you.”

Sophie looked at her at last. “I’m taking a nap.”

Vianne could only nod. Ordinarily she would have been undone by this tension with her daughter, overwhelmed by a sense of having failed. Now, she just sighed and got to her feet. She wiped the grass from her skirt and headed up to the barn. Inside, she rolled the Renault forward and opened the cellar door. “Rach? It’s me.”

“Thank God” came a whispery voice from the darkness. Rachel climbed up the creaking ladder and emerged into the dusty light, holding Ari.

“What happened?” Rachel asked tiredly.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I went to town. Everything seems normal. Maybe Beck was being overly cautious, but I think you should spend one more night down there.”

Rachel’s face was drawn, tired-looking. “I’ll need diapers. And a quick bath. Ari and I both smell.” The toddler started to cry. She pushed the damp curls away from her sweat-dampened forehead and murmured to him in a soft, lilting voice.

They left the barn and headed for Rachel’s house next door.

They were nearly to the front door when a French police car pulled up out front. Paul got out of the car and strode into the yard, carrying his rifle. “Are you Rachel de Champlain?” he asked.

Rachel frowned. “You know I am.”

“You are being deported. Come with me.”

Rachel tightened her hold on Ari. “Don’t take my son—”

“He is not on the list,” Paul said.

Vianne grabbed the man’s sleeve. “You can’t do this, Paul. She is French!”

“She’s a Jew.” He pointed his rifle at Rachel. “Move.”

Rachel started to say something, but Paul silenced her; he grabbed her by the arm, yanked her out to the road, and forced her into the backseat of his automobile.

Vianne meant to stay where she was—safe—intended to, but the next thing she knew she was running alongside the automobile, banging on the bonnet, begging to be let inside. Paul slammed on the brakes, let her climb into the backseat, and then he stomped on the gas.

“Go,” Rachel said as they passed Le Jardin. “This is no place for you.”

“This is no place for anyone,” Vianne said.

Even a week ago, she might have let Rachel go alone. She might have turned away—with regret, probably, and guilt, certainly—but she would have thought that protecting Sophie was more important than anything else.

Last night had changed her. She still felt fragile and frightened, maybe more so, but she was angry now, too.

In town, there were barricades on a dozen streets. Police wagons were everywhere, disgorging people with yellow stars on their chests, herding them toward the train station, where cattle cars waited. There were hundreds of people; they must have come from all the communes in the area.

Paul parked and opened the car doors. Vianne and Rachel and Ari stepped into the crowd of Jewish women and children and old men making their way to the platform.

A train waited, puffing black smoke into the already hot air. Two German soldiers were standing on the platform. One of them was Beck. He was holding a whip. A whip.

But it was French police who were in charge of the roundup; they were forcing people into lines and shoving them onto the cattle cars. Men went into one cattle car; women and children in the other.

Up ahead, a woman holding a baby tried to run. A gendarme shot her in the back. She pitched to the ground, dead; the baby rolled to the boots of the gendarme holding a smoking gun.

Rachel stopped, turned to Vianne. “Take my son,” she whispered.

The crowd jostled them.

“Take him. Save him,” Rachel pleaded.

Vianne didn’t hesitate. She knew now that no one could be neutral—not anymore—and as afraid as she was of risking Sophie’s life, she was suddenly more afraid of letting her daughter grow up in a world where good people did nothing to stop evil, where a good woman could turn her back on a friend in need. She reached for the toddler, took him in her arms.

“You!” A gendarme stabbed Rachel in the shoulder with the butt of his rifle so hard she stumbled. “Move!”

She looked at Vianne, and the universe of their friendship was in her eyes—the secrets they’d shared, the promises they’d made and kept, the dreams for their children that bound them as neatly as sisters.

“Get out of here,” Rachel cried hoarsely. “Go.”

Vianne backed away. Before she knew it, she had turned and begun shoving her way through the crowd, away from the platform and the soldiers and the dogs, away from the smell of fear and the crack of whips and the sound of women wailing and babies crying. She didn’t allow herself to slow until she reached the end of the platform. There, holding Ari closely, she turned around.

Rachel stood in the black, yawning entrance of a cattle car, her face and hands still smeared with her daughter’s blood. She scanned the crowd, saw Vianne, and raised her bloody hand in the air, and then she was gone, shoved back by the women stumbling in around her. The door to the cattle car clanged shut.

*   *   *

Vianne collapsed onto the divan. Ari was crying uncontrollably and his diaper was wet and he smelled of urine. She should get up, take care of him, do something, but she couldn’t move. She felt weighed down by loss, suffocated by it.

Sophie came into the living room. “Why do you have Ari?” she said in a quiet, frightened voice. “Where’s Madame de Champlain?”

“She is gone,” Vianne said. She hadn’t the strength to fabricate a lie, and what was the good of one anyway?

There was no way to protect her daughter from all of the evil around them.

No way.

Sophie would grow up knowing too much. Knowing fear and loss and probably hatred.

“Rachel was born in Romania,” Vianne said tightly. “That—along with being Jewish—was her crime. The Vichy government doesn’t care that she has lived in France for twenty-five years and married a Frenchman and that he fought for France. So they deported her.”

“Where will they take her?”

“I don’t know.”

“Will she come back after the war?”

Yes. No. I hope so. What answer would a good mother give?

“I hope so.”

“And Ari?” Sophie asked.

“He will stay with us. He wasn’t on the list. I guess our government believes children can raise themselves.”

“But Maman, what do we—”

“Do? What do we do? I have no idea.” She sighed. “For now, you watch the baby. I’ll go next door and get his crib and clothes.”

Vianne was almost to the door when Sophie said, “What about Captain Beck?”

Vianne stopped dead. She remembered seeing him on the platform with a whip in his hand; a whip he cracked to herd women and children onto a cattle car. “Oui,” she said. “What about Captain Beck?”

*   *   *

Vianne washed her blood-soaked clothes and hung them to dry in the backyard, trying not to notice how red the soapy water was when she splashed it across the grass. She made Sophie and Ari supper (What had she made? She couldn’t remember.) and put them to bed, but once the house was quiet and dark, she couldn’t suppress her emotions. She was angry—howlingly so—and devastated.

She couldn’t stand how dark and ugly her thoughts were, how bottomless her anger and grief. She ripped the pretty lace from her collar and stumbled outside, remembering when Rachel had given her this blouse. Three years ago.

It’s what everyone’s wearing in Paris.

The apple trees spread their arms above her. It took her two tries to tie the scrap of fabric to the knobby wooden branch between Antoine’s and Sarah’s, and when she’d done it, she stepped back.

Sarah.

Rachel.

Antoine.

The scraps of color blurred; that was when she realized she was crying.

“Please God,” she began to pray, looking up at the bits of fabric and lace and yarn, tied around the knobby branch, interspersed with unripe apples. What good were prayers now, when her loved ones were gone?

She heard a motorcycle come up the road and park outside Le Jardin.

Moments later: “Madame?”

She spun to face him. “Where’s your whip, Herr Captain?”

“You were there?”

“How does it feel to whip a Frenchwoman?”

“You can’t think I would do that, Madame. It sickens me.”

“And yet there you were.”

“As were you. This war has put us all where we do not want to be.”

“Less so for you Germans.”

“I tried to help her,” he said.

At that, Vianne felt the rage go out of her; her grief returned. He had tried to save Rachel. If only they had listened to him and kept her hidden longer. She swayed. Beck reached out and steadied her.

“You said to hide her in the morning. She was in that terrible cellar all day. By afternoon, I thought … everything seemed normal.”

“Von Richter adjusted the timetable. There was a problem with the trains.”

The trains.

Rachel waving good-bye.

Vianne looked up at him. “Where are they taking her?”

It was the first substantive question she’d ever asked him.

“To a work camp in Germany.”

“I hid her all day,” Vianne said again, as if it mattered now.

“The Wehrmacht aren’t in control anymore. It’s the Gestapo and the SS. They’re more … brutes than soldiers.”

“Why were you there?”

“I was following orders. Where are her children?”

“Your Germans shot Sarah in the back at the frontier checkpoint.”

“Mein Gott,” he muttered.

“I have her son. Why wasn’t Ari on the list?”

“He was born in France and is under fourteen. They are not deporting French Jews.” He looked at her. “Yet.”

Vianne caught her breath. “Will they come for Ari?”

“I believe that soon they will deport all Jews, regardless of age or place of birth. And when they do, it will become dangerous to have any Jew in your home.”

“Children, deported. Alone.” The horror of it was unbelievable, even after what she’d already seen. “I promised Rachel I’d keep him safe. Will you turn me in?” she asked.

“I am not a monster, Vianne.”

It was the first time he’d ever used her Christian name.

He moved closer. “I want to protect you,” he said.

It was the worst thing he could have said. She had felt lonely for years, but now she truly was alone.

He touched her upper arm, almost a caress, and she felt it in every part of her body, like an electrical charge. Unable to help herself, she looked at him.

He was close to her, just a kiss away. All she had to do was give him the slightest encouragement—a breath, a nod, a touch—and he would close the gap between them. For a moment, she forgot who she was and what had happened today; she longed to be soothed, to forget. She leaned the smallest bit forward, enough to smell his breath, feel it on her lips, and then she remembered—all at once, in a whoosh of anger—and she pushed him away so he stumbled.

She scrubbed her lips, as if they’d touched his.

“We can’t,” she said.

“Of course not.”

But when he looked at her—and she looked at him—they both knew that there was something worse than kissing the wrong person.

It was wanting to.

TWENTY-FOUR

Summer ended. Hot golden days gave way to washed-out skies and falling rain. Isabelle was so focused on the escape route that she hardly noticed the change in weather.

On a chilly October afternoon, she stepped out of the train carriage in a crowd of passengers, holding a bouquet of autumn flowers.

As she walked up the boulevard, German motorcars clogged the street, honking loudly. Soldiers strode confidently among the cowed, drab Parisians. Swastika flags flapped in the wintry wind. She hurried down the Métro steps.

The tunnel was crowded with people and papered in Nazi propaganda that demonized the Brits and Jews and made the Führer the answer to every question.

Suddenly, the air raid sirens howled. The electricity snapped off, plunging everyone into darkness. She heard people muttering and babies crying and old men coughing. From far away, she could hear the thump and grumble of explosions. It was probably Boulogne-Billancourt—again—and why not? Renault was making lorries for the Germans.

When the all clear finally sounded, no one moved until moments later, when the electricity and lights came back on.

Isabelle was almost to the train when a whistle blared.

She froze. Nazi soldiers, accompanied by French collaborators, moved through the tunnel, talking to one another, pointing at people, pulling them out to the perimeter, forcing them to their knees.

A rifle appeared in front of her.

“Papers,” the German said.

Isabelle clutched the flowers in one hand and fumbled nervously with her purse with the other. She had a message for Anouk wrapped within the bouquet. It was not unexpected, of course, this search. Since the Allied successes in North Africa had begun, the Germans stopped people constantly, demanding papers. In the streets, the shops, the train stations, the churches. There was no safety anywhere. She handed over her false carte d’identité. “I am meeting a friend of my mother’s for lunch.”

The Frenchman sidled up to the German and perused the papers. He shook his head and the German handed Isabelle her papers and said, “Go.”

Isabelle smiled quickly, nodded a thank-you, and hurried for the train, slipping into an open carriage just as the doors slid shut.

By the time she exited in the sixteenth arrondissement, her calm had returned. A wet fog clung to the streets, obscuring the buildings and the barges moving slowly on the Seine. Sounds were amplified by the haze, turned strange. Somewhere, a ball was bouncing (probably boys playing in the street). One of the barges honked its horn and the noise lingered.

At the avenue, she turned the corner and went to a bistro—one of the few with its lights on. A nasty wind ruffled the awning. She passed the empty tables and went to the outside counter, where she ordered a café au lait (without coffee or milk, of course).

“Juliette? Is that you?”

Isabelle saw Anouk and smiled. “Gabrielle. How lovely to see you.” Isabelle handed Anouk the flowers.

Anouk ordered a coffee. While they stood there, sipping coffee in the icy weather, Anouk said, “I spoke with my uncle Henri yesterday. He misses you.”

“Is he unwell?”

“No. No. Quite the opposite. He is planning a party for next Tuesday night. He asked me to extend an invitation.”

“Shall I take him a gift for you?”

“No, but a letter would be nice. Here, I have it ready for you.”

Isabelle took the letter and slipped it into the lining of her purse.

Anouk looked at her. Smoky shadows circled her eyes. New lines had begun to crease her cheeks and brow. This life in the shadows had begun to take a toll on her.

“Are you all right, my friend?” Isabelle asked.

Anouk’s smile was tired but true. “Oui.” She paused. “I saw Gaëtan last night. He will be at the meeting in Carriveau.”

“Why tell me?”

“Isabelle, you are the most transparent person I have ever met. Every thought and feeling you have reveals itself in your eyes. Are you unaware how often you have mentioned him to me?”

“Really? I thought I had hidden it.”

“It’s nice, actually. It reminds me of what we are fighting for. Simple things: a girl and a boy and their future.” She kissed Isabelle’s cheeks. Then she whispered, “He mentions you as well.”

*   *   *

Luckily for Isabelle, it was raining in Carriveau on this late October day.

No one paid attention to people in weather like this, not even the Germans. She flipped her hood up and held her coat shut at her throat; even so, rain pelted her face and slid in cold streaks down her neck as she hauled her bicycle off the train and walked it across the platform.

On the outskirts of town, she climbed aboard. Choosing a lesser-used alley, she pedaled into Carriveau, bypassing the square. On a rainy autumn day like this, there were few people out and about; only women and children standing in food queues, their coats and hats dripping rainwater. The Germans were mostly inside.

By the time she reached the Hôtel Bellevue, she was exhausted. She dismounted, locked her bicycle to a streetlamp, and went inside.

A bell jangled overhead, announcing her arrival to the German soldiers who were seated in the lobby, drinking their afternoon coffees.

“M’mselle,” one of the officers said, reaching for a flaky, golden pain au chocolat. “You are soaking wet.”

“These French do not know enough to get out of the rain.”

They laughed at that.

She kept smiling and walked past them. At the hotel’s front desk, she rang the bell.

Henri came out of the back room, holding a tray of coffees. He saw her and nodded.

“One moment, Madame,” Henri said, gliding past her, carrying the tray to a table where two SS agents sat like spiders in their black uniforms.

When Henri returned to the front desk, he said, “Madame Gervaise, welcome back. It is good to see you again. Your room is ready, of course. If you’ll follow me…”

She nodded and followed Henri down the narrow hallway and up the stairs to the second floor. There, he pressed a skeleton key into a lock, gave it a twist, and opened the door to reveal a small bedroom with a single bed, a nightstand, and a lamp. He led her inside, kicked the door shut with his foot, and took her in his arms.

“Isabelle,” he said, pulling her close. “It is good to see you.” He released her and stepped back. “With Romainville … I worried.”

Isabelle lowered her wet hood. “Oui.” In the past two months, the Nazis had cracked down on what they called saboteurs and resisters. They had finally begun to see the role women were playing in this war and had imprisoned more than two hundred French women in Romainville.

She unbuttoned her coat and draped it over the end of the bed. Reaching into the lining, she pulled out an envelope and handed it to Henri. “Here you go,” she said, giving him money that had come from MI9. His hotel was one of the key safe houses their group maintained. Isabelle loved that they housed Brits and Yanks and resisters right under the Nazis’ noses. Tonight she would be a guest in this smallest of rooms.

She pulled out a chair from behind a scarred writing desk and sat down. “The meeting is set for tonight?”

“Eleven P.M. In the abandoned barn on the Angeler farm.”

“What’s it about?”

“I’m not in the know.” He sat down on the end of the bed. She could tell by the look on his face that he was going to get serious and she groaned.

“I hear the Nazis are desperate to find the Nightingale. Word is that they’re trying to infiltrate the escape route.”

“I know this, Henri.” She lifted one eyebrow. “I hope you are not going to tell me that it’s dangerous.”

“You are going too often, Isabelle. How many trips have you made?”

“Twenty-four.”

Henri shook his head. “No wonder they are desperate to find you. We hear word of another escape route, running through Marseille and Perpignan, that is having success, too. There is going to be trouble, Isabelle.”

She was surprised by how much his concern moved her and how nice it was to hear her own name. It felt good to be Isabelle Rossignol again, even if only for a few moments, and to sit with someone who knew her. So much of her life was spent hiding and on the run, in safe houses with strangers.

Still, she saw no reason to talk about this. The escape route was invaluable and worth the risk they were taking. “You are keeping an eye on my sister, oui?”

“Oui.”

“The Nazi still billets there?”

Henri’s gaze slid away from hers.

“What is it?”

“Vianne was fired from her teaching post some time ago.”

“Why? Her students love her. She’s an excellent teacher.”

“The rumor is that she questioned a Gestapo officer.”

“That doesn’t sound like Vianne. So she has no income. What is she living on?”

Henri looked uncomfortable. “There is gossip.”

“Gossip?”

“About her and the Nazi.”

*   *   *

All summer long, Vianne hid Rachel’s son in Le Jardin. She made sure never to venture out with him, not even to garden. Without papers, she couldn’t pretend he was anyone other than Ariel de Champlain. She had to let Sophie stay at home with the child, and so each journey to town was a nerve-wracking event that couldn’t be over soon enough. She told everyone she could think of—shopkeepers, nuns, villagers—that Rachel had been deported with both her children.

It was all she could think of to do.

Today, after a long, slogging day standing in line only to be told there was nothing left, Vianne left town feeling defeated. There were rumors of more deportations, more roundups, happening all over France. Thousands of French Jews were being held at internment camps.

At home, she hung her wet cloak on an exterior hook by the front door. She had no real hope that it would dry out before tomorrow, but at least it wouldn’t drip all over her floor. She stepped out of her muddy rubber boots by the door and went into the house. As usual, Sophie was standing by the door, waiting for her.

“I’m fine,” Vianne said.

Sophie nodded solemnly. “So are we.”

“Will you give Ari a bath while I make supper?”

Sophie scooped Ari into her arms and left the room.

Vianne uncoiled the scarf from her hair and hung it up. Then she set her basket in the sink to dry out and went down to the pantry, where she chose a sausage and some undersized, softening potatoes and onions.

Back in the kitchen, she lit the stove and preheated her black cast-iron skillet. Adding a drop of the precious oil, she browned the sausage.

Vianne stared down at the meat, breaking it up with her wooden spoon, watching it turn from pink to gray to a nice, crusty brown. When it was crispy, she added cubed potatoes and diced onions and garlic. The garlic popped and browned and released its scent into the air.

“That smells delicious.”

“Herr Captain,” she said quietly. “I didn’t hear your motorcycle.”

“M’mselle Sophie let me in.”

She turned down the flame on the stove and covered the pan, then faced him. By tacit agreement, they both pretended that the night in the orchard had never happened. Neither had mentioned it, and yet it was in the air between them always.

Things had changed that night, subtly. He ate supper with them most nights now; mostly food that he brought home—never large amounts, just a ham slice or a bag of flour or a few sausages. He spoke openly of his wife and children, and she talked about Antoine. All their words were designed to reinforce a wall that had already been breached. He repeatedly offered—most kindly—to mail Vianne’s care packages to Antoine, which she filled with whatever small items she could spare—old winter gloves that were too big, cigarettes Beck left behind, a precious jar of jam.

Vianne made sure never to be alone with Beck. That was the biggest change. She didn’t go out to the backyard at night or stay up after Sophie went to bed. She didn’t trust herself to be alone with him.

“I have brought you a gift,” he said.

He held out a set of papers. A birth certificate for a baby born in June of 1939 to Etienne and Aimée Mauriac. A boy named Daniel Antoine Mauriac.

Vianne looked at Beck. Had she told him that she and Antoine had wanted to name a son Daniel? She must have, although she didn’t remember it.

“It is unsafe to house Jewish children now. Or it will be very soon.”

“You have taken such a risk for him. For us,” she said.

“For you,” he said quietly. “And they are false papers, Madame. Remember that. To go along with the story that you adopted him from a relative.”

“I will never tell them they came from you.”

“It is not myself I worry about, Madame. Ari must become Daniel immediately. Completely. And you must be extremely careful. The Gestapo and the SS are … brutes. The Allied victories in Africa are hitting us hard. And this final solution for the Jews … it is an evil impossible to comprehend. I…” He paused, gazed down at her. “I want to protect you.”

“You have,” she said, looking up at him.

He started to move toward her, and she to him, even as she knew it was a mistake.

Sophie came running into the kitchen. “Ari is hungry, Maman. He keeps complaining.”

Beck came to a stop. Reaching past her—brushing her arm with his hand—he picked up a fork on the counter. Taking it, he speared one perfect bite of sausage, a crispy brown cube of potato, a chunk of carmelized onion.

As he ate it, he stared down at her. He was so close now she could feel his breath on her cheek. “You are a most amazing cook, Madame.”

“Merci,” she said in a tight voice.

He stepped back. “I regret I cannot stay for supper, Madame. I must away.”

Vianne tore her gaze away from him and smiled at Sophie. “Set the table for three,” she said.

*   *   *

Later, while supper simmered on the stove, Vianne gathered the children together on their bed. “Sophie, Ari, come here. I need to speak with you.”