The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah - PDF

[]{#titlepage.xhtml} []{#title.xhtml} image []{#copyrightnotice.xhtml}   The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. [Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this...

[]{#titlepage.xhtml} []{#title.xhtml} image []{#copyrightnotice.xhtml}   The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. [Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at: [us.macmillanusa.com/piracy](http://us.macmillanusa.com/piracy).]{.ePub-B} []{#dedication.xhtml}   [To Matthew Shear. Friend. Mentor. Champion. You are missed.]{.ePub-I} [And to Kaylee Nova Hannah, the newest star in our world:]{.ePub-I} [Welcome, baby girl.]{.ePub-I} []{#contents.xhtml}   CONTENTS [Title Page](#title.xhtml#tit) [Copyright Notice](#copyrightnotice.xhtml#notice) [Dedication](#dedication.xhtml#ded) [Chapter 1](#chapter1.xhtml#ch1) [Chapter 2](#chapter2.xhtml#ch2) [Chapter 3](#chapter3.xhtml#ch3) [Chapter 4](#chapter4.xhtml#ch4) [Chapter 5](#chapter5.xhtml#ch5) [Chapter 6](#chapter6.xhtml#ch6) [Chapter 7](#chapter7.xhtml#ch7) [Chapter 8](#chapter8.xhtml#ch8) [Chapter 9](#chapter9.xhtml#ch9) [Chapter 10](#chapter10.xhtml#ch10) [Chapter 11](#chapter11.xhtml#ch11) [Chapter 12](#chapter12.xhtml#ch12) [Chapter 13](#chapter13.xhtml#ch13) [Chapter 14](#chapter14.xhtml#ch14) [Chapter 15](#chapter15.xhtml#ch15) [Chapter 16](#chapter16.xhtml#ch16) [Chapter 17](#chapter17.xhtml#ch17) [Chapter 18](#chapter18.xhtml#ch18) [Chapter 19](#chapter19.xhtml#ch19) [Chapter 20](#chapter20.xhtml#ch20) [Chapter 21](#chapter21.xhtml#ch21) [Chapter 22](#chapter22.xhtml#ch22) [Chapter 23](#chapter23.xhtml#ch23) [Chapter 24](#chapter24.xhtml#ch24) [Chapter 25](#chapter25.xhtml#ch25) [Chapter 26](#chapter26.xhtml#ch26) [Chapter 27](#chapter27.xhtml#ch27) [Chapter 28](#chapter28.xhtml#ch28) [Chapter 29](#chapter29.xhtml#ch29) [Chapter 30](#chapter30.xhtml#ch30) [Chapter 31](#chapter31.xhtml#ch31) [Chapter 32](#chapter32.xhtml#ch32) [Chapter 33](#chapter33.xhtml#ch33) [Chapter 34](#chapter34.xhtml#ch34) [Chapter 35](#chapter35.xhtml#ch35) [Chapter 36](#chapter36.xhtml#ch36) [Chapter 37](#chapter37.xhtml#ch37) [Chapter 38](#chapter38.xhtml#ch38) [Chapter 39](#chapter39.xhtml#ch39) [Acknowledgments](#acknowledgments.xhtml#ack) [Also by Kristin Hannah](#adcard.xhtml#also) [About the Author](#abouttheauthor.xhtml#ata) [Copyright](#copyright.xhtml#copy) []{#chapter1.xhtml}   [ONE](#contents.xhtml#c_ch1) [April 9, 1995]{.ePub-I} [The Oregon Coast]{.ePub-I} If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: In love we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are. Today's young people want to know everything about everyone. They think talking about a problem will solve it. I come from a quieter generation. We understand the value of forgetting, the lure of reinvention. Lately, though, I find myself thinking about the war and my past, about the people I lost. Lost. It makes it sound as if I misplaced my loved ones; perhaps I left them where they don't belong and then turned away, too confused to retrace my steps. They are not lost. Nor are they in a better place. They are gone. As I approach the end of my years, I know that grief, like regret, settles into our DNA and remains forever a part of us. I have aged in the months since my husband's death and my diagnosis. My skin has the crinkled appearance of wax paper that someone has tried to flatten and reuse. My eyes fail me often---in the darkness, when headlights flash, when rain falls. It is unnerving, this new unreliability in my vision. Perhaps that's why I find myself looking backward. The past has a clarity I can no longer see in the present. I want to imagine there will be peace when I am gone, that I will see all of the people I have loved and lost. At least that I will be forgiven. I know better, though, don't I? \*   \*   \* My house, named The Peaks by the lumber baron who built it more than a hundred years ago, is for sale, and I am preparing to move because my son thinks I should. He is trying to take care of me, to show how much he loves me in this most difficult of times, and so I put up with his controlling ways. What do I care where I die? That is the point, really. It no longer matters where I live. I am boxing up the Oregon beachside life I settled into nearly fifty years ago. There is not much I want to take with me. But there is one thing. I reach for the hanging handle that controls the attic steps. The stairs unfold from the ceiling like a gentleman extending his hand. The flimsy stairs wobble beneath my feet as I climb into the attic, which smells of must and mold. A single, hanging lightbulb swings overhead. I pull the cord. It is like being in the hold of an old steamship. Wide wooden planks panel the walls; cobwebs turn the creases silver and hang in skeins from the indentations between the planks. The ceiling is so steeply pitched that I can stand upright only in the center of the room. I see the rocking chair I used when my grandchildren were young, then an old crib and a ratty-looking rocking horse set on rusty springs, and the chair my daughter was refinishing when she got sick. Boxes are tucked along the wall, marked "Xmas," "Thanksgiving," "Easter," "Halloween," "Serveware," "Sports." In those boxes are the things I don't use much anymore but can't bear to part with. For me, admitting that I won't decorate a tree for Christmas is giving up, and I've never been good at letting go. Tucked in the corner is what I am looking for: an ancient steamer trunk covered in travel stickers. With effort, I drag the heavy trunk to the center of the attic, directly beneath the hanging light. I kneel beside it, but the pain in my knees is piercing, so I slide onto my backside. For the first time in thirty years, I lift the trunk's lid. The top tray is full of baby memorabilia. Tiny shoes, ceramic hand molds, crayon drawings populated by stick figures and smiling suns, report cards, dance recital pictures. I lift the tray from the trunk and set it aside. The mementos in the bottom of the trunk are in a messy pile: several faded leather-bound journals; a packet of aged postcards tied together with a blue satin ribbon; a cardboard box bent in one corner; a set of slim books of poetry by Julien Rossignol; and a shoebox that holds hundreds of black-and-white photographs. On top is a yellowed, faded piece of paper. My hands are shaking as I pick it up. It is a [carte d'identité]{.ePub-I}, an identity card, from the war. I see the small, passport-sized photo of a young woman. [Juliette Gervaise]{.ePub-I}. "Mom?" I hear my son on the creaking wooden steps, footsteps that match my heartbeats. Has he called out to me before? "Mom? You shouldn't be up here. Shit. The steps are unsteady." He comes to stand beside me. "One fall and---" I touch his pant leg, shake my head softly. I can't look up. "Don't" is all I can say. He kneels, then sits. I can smell his aftershave, something subtle and spicy, and also a hint of smoke. He has sneaked a cigarette outside, a habit he gave up decades ago and took up again at my recent diagnosis. There is no reason to voice my disapproval: He is a doctor. He knows better. My instinct is to toss the card into the trunk and slam the lid down, hiding it again. It's what I have done all my life. Now I am dying. Not quickly, perhaps, but not slowly, either, and I feel compelled to look back on my life. "Mom, you're crying." "Am I?" I want to tell him the truth, but I can't. It embarrasses and shames me, this failure. At my age, I should not be afraid of anything---certainly not my own past. I say only, "I want to take this trunk." "It's too big. I'll repack the things you want into a smaller box." I smile at his attempt to control me. "I love you and I am sick again. For these reasons, I have let you push me around, but I am not dead yet. I want this trunk with me." "What can you possibly need in it? It's just our artwork and other junk." If I had told him the truth long ago, or had danced and drunk and sung more, maybe he would have seen [me]{.ePub-I} instead of a dependable, ordinary mother. He loves a version of me that is incomplete. I always thought it was what I wanted: to be loved and admired. Now I think perhaps I'd like to be known. "Think of this as my last request." I can see that he wants to tell me not to talk that way, but he's afraid his voice will catch. He clears his throat. "You've beaten it twice before. You'll beat it again." We both know this isn't true. I am unsteady and weak. I can neither sleep nor eat without the help of medical science. "Of course I will." "I just want to keep you safe." I smile. Americans can be so naïve. Once I shared his optimism. I thought the world was safe. But that was a long time ago. "Who is Juliette Gervaise?" Julien says and it shocks me a little to hear that name from him. I close my eyes and in the darkness that smells of mildew and bygone lives, my mind casts back, a line thrown across years and continents. Against my will---or maybe in tandem with it, who knows anymore?---I remember. []{#chapter2.xhtml}   [TWO](#contents.xhtml#c_ch2) The lights are going out all over Europe; We shall not see them lit again in our lifetime. ---S[IR ]{.ePub-SC}E[DWARD ]{.ePub-SC}G[REY, ON ]{.ePub-SC}W[ORLD ]{.ePub-SC}W[AR ]{.ePub-SC}I [August 1939]{.ePub-I} [France]{.ePub-I} Vianne Mauriac left the cool, stucco-walled kitchen and stepped out into her front yard. On this beautiful summer morning in the Loire Valley, everything was in bloom. White sheets flapped in the breeze and roses tumbled like laughter along the ancient stone wall that hid her property from the road. A pair of industrious bees buzzed among the blooms; from far away, she heard the chugging purr of a train and then the sweet sound of a little girl's laughter. Sophie. Vianne smiled. Her eight-year-old daughter was probably running through the house, making her father dance attendance on her as they readied for their Saturday picnic. "Your daughter is a tyrant," Antoine said, appearing in the doorway. He walked toward her, his pomaded hair glinting black in the sunlight. He'd been working on his furniture this morning---sanding a chair that was already as soft as satin---and a fine layer of wood dust peppered his face and shoulders. He was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, with a rough face and a dark stubble that took constant effort to keep from becoming a beard. He slipped an arm around her and pulled her close. "I love you, V." "I love you, too." It was the truest fact of her world. She loved everything about this man, his smile, the way he mumbled in his sleep and laughed after a sneeze and sang opera in the shower. She'd fallen in love with him fifteen years ago, on the school play yard, before she'd even known what love was. He was her first everything---first kiss, first love, first lover. Before him, she'd been a skinny, awkward, anxious girl given to stuttering when she got scared, which was often. A motherless girl. [You will be the adult now,]{.ePub-I} her father had said to Vianne as they walked up to this very house for the first time. She'd been fourteen years old, her eyes swollen from crying, her grief unbearable. In an instant, this house had gone from being the family's summer house to a prison of sorts. Maman had been dead less than two weeks when Papa gave up on being a father. Upon their arrival here, he'd not held her hand or rested a hand on her shoulder or even offered her a handkerchief to dry her tears. [B-but I'm just a girl,]{.ePub-I} she'd said. [Not anymore.]{.ePub-I} She'd looked down at her younger sister, Isabelle, who still sucked her thumb at four and had no idea what was going on. Isabelle kept asking when Maman was coming home. When the door opened, a tall, thin woman with a nose like a water spigot and eyes as small and dark as raisins appeared. [These are the girls?]{.ePub-I} the woman had said. Papa nodded. [They will be no trouble.]{.ePub-I} It had happened so fast. Vianne hadn't really understood. Papa dropped off his daughters like soiled laundry and left them with a stranger. The girls were so far apart in age it was as if they were from different families. Vianne had wanted to comfort Isabelle---meant to---but Vianne had been in so much pain it was impossible to think of anyone else, especially a child as willful and impatient and loud as Isabelle. Vianne still remembered those first days here: Isabelle shrieking and Madame spanking her. Vianne had pleaded with her sister, saying, again and again, [Mon Dieu, Isabelle, quit screeching. Just do as she bids,]{.ePub-I} but even at four, Isabelle had been unmanageable. Vianne had been undone by all of it---the grief for her dead mother, the pain of her father's abandonment, the sudden change in their circumstances, and Isabelle's cloying, needy loneliness. It was Antoine who'd saved Vianne. That first summer after Maman's death, the two of them had become inseparable. With him, Vianne had found an escape. By the time she was sixteen, she was pregnant; at seventeen, she was married and the mistress of Le Jardin. Two months later, she had a miscarriage and she lost herself for a while. There was no other way to put it. She'd crawled into her grief and cocooned it around her, unable to care about anyone or anything---certainly not a needy, wailing four-year-old sister. But that was old news. Not the sort of memory she wanted on a beautiful day like today. She leaned against her husband as their daughter ran up to them, announcing, "I'm ready. Let's go." "Well," Antoine said, grinning. "The princess is ready and so we must move." Vianne smiled as she went back into the house and retrieved her hat from the hook by the door. A strawberry blonde, with porcelain-thin skin and sea-blue eyes, she always protected herself from the sun. By the time she'd settled the wide-brimmed straw hat in place and collected her lacy gloves and picnic basket, Sophie and Antoine were already outside the gate. Vianne joined them on the dirt road in front of their home. It was barely wide enough for an automobile. Beyond it stretched acres of hayfields, the green here and there studded with red poppies and blue cornflowers. Forests grew in patches. In this corner of the Loire Valley, fields were more likely to be growing hay than grapes. Although less than two hours from Paris by train, it felt like a different world altogether. Few tourists visited, even in the summer. Now and then an automobile rumbled past, or a bicyclist, or an ox-driven cart, but for the most part, they were alone on the road. They lived nearly a mile from Carriveau, a town of less than a thousand souls that was known mostly as a stopping point on the pilgrimage of Ste. Jeanne d'Arc. There was no industry in town and few jobs---except for those at the airfield that was the pride of Carriveau. The only one of its kind for miles. In town, narrow cobblestoned streets wound through ancient limestone buildings that leaned clumsily against one another. Mortar crumbled from stone walls, ivy hid the decay that lay beneath, unseen but always felt. The village had been cobbled together piecemeal---crooked streets, uneven steps, blind alleys---over hundreds of years. Colors enlivened the stone buildings: red awnings ribbed in black metal, ironwork balconies decorated with geraniums in terra-cotta planters. Everywhere there was something to tempt the eye: a display case of pastel macarons, rough willow baskets filled with cheese and ham and [saucisson,]{.ePub-I} crates of colorful tomatoes and aubergines and cucumbers. The cafés were full on this sunny day. Men sat around metal tables, drinking coffee and smoking hand-rolled brown cigarettes and arguing loudly. A typical day in Carriveau. Monsieur LaChoa was sweeping the street in front of his [saladerie,]{.ePub-I} and Madame Clonet was washing the window of her hat shop, and a pack of adolescent boys was strolling through town, shoulder to shoulder, kicking bits of trash and passing a cigarette back and forth. At the end of town, they turned toward the river. At a flat, grassy spot along the shore, Vianne set down her basket and spread out a blanket in the shade of a chestnut tree. From the picnic basket, she withdrew a crusty baguette, a wedge of rich, double-cream cheese, two apples, some slices of paper-thin Bayonne ham, and a bottle of Bollinger '36. She poured her husband a glass of champagne and sat down beside him as Sophie ran toward the riverbank. The day passed in a haze of sunshine-warmed contentment. They talked and laughed and shared their picnic. It wasn't until late in the day, when Sophie was off with her fishing pole and Antoine was making their daughter a crown of daisies, that he said, "Hitler will suck us all into his war soon." War. It was all anyone could talk about these days, and Vianne didn't want to hear it. Especially not on this lovely summer day. She tented a hand across her eyes and stared at her daughter. Beyond the river, the green Loire Valley lay cultivated with care and precision. There were no fences, no boundaries, just miles of rolling green fields and patches of trees and the occasional stone house or barn. Tiny white blossoms floated like bits of cotton in the air. She got to her feet and clapped her hands. "Come, Sophie. It's time to go home." "You can't ignore this, Vianne." "Should I look for trouble? Why? You are here to protect us." Smiling (too brightly, perhaps), she packed up the picnic and gathered her family and led them back to the dirt road. In less than thirty minutes, they were at the sturdy wooden gate of Le Jardin, the stone country house that had been in her family for three hundred years. Aged to a dozen shades of gray, it was a two-story house with blue-shuttered windows that overlooked the orchard. Ivy climbed up the two chimneys and covered the bricks beneath. Only seven acres of the original parcel were left. The other two hundred had been sold off over the course of two centuries as her family's fortune dwindled. Seven acres was plenty for Vianne. She couldn't imagine needing more. Vianne closed the door behind them. In the kitchen, copper and cast-iron pots and pans hung from an iron rack above the stove. Lavender and rosemary and thyme hung in drying bunches from the exposed timber beams of the ceiling. A copper sink, green with age, was big enough to bathe a small dog in. The plaster on the interior walls was peeling here and there to reveal paint from years gone by. The living room was an eclectic mix of furniture and fabrics---tapestried settee, Aubusson rugs, antique Chinese porcelain, chintz and toile. Some of the paintings on the wall were excellent---perhaps important---and some were amateurish. It had the jumbled, cobbled-together look of lost money and bygone taste---a little shabby, but comfortable. She paused in the salon, glancing through the glass-paned doors that led to the backyard, where Antoine was pushing Sophie on the swing he'd made for her. Vianne hung her hat gently on the hook by the door and retrieved her apron, tying it in place. While Sophie and Antoine played outside, Vianne cooked supper. She wrapped a pink pork tenderloin in thick-cut bacon, tied it in twine, and browned it in hot oil. While the pork roasted in the oven, she made the rest of the meal. At eight o'clock---right on time---she called everyone to supper and couldn't help smiling at the thundering of feet and the chatter of conversation and the squealing of chair legs scraping across the floor as they sat down. Sophie sat at the head of the table, wearing the crown of daisies Antoine had made for her at the riverbank. Vianne set down the platter. A delicious fragrance wafted upward---roasted pork and crispy bacon and apples glazed in a rich wine sauce, resting on a bed of browned potatoes. Beside it was a bowl of fresh peas, swimming in butter seasoned with tarragon from the garden. And of course there was the baguette Vianne had made yesterday morning. As always, Sophie talked all through supper. She was like her Tante Isabelle in that way---a girl who couldn't hold her tongue. When at last they came to dessert---[ile flottante,]{.ePub-I} islands of toasted meringue floating in a rich crème anglaise---there was a satisfied silence around the table. "Well," Vianne said at last, pushing her half-empty dessert plate away, "it's time to do the dishes." "Ahh, Maman," Sophie whined. "No whining," Antoine said. "Not at your age." Vianne and Sophie went into the kitchen, as they did each night, to their stations---Vianne at the deep copper sink, Sophie at the stone counter---and began washing and drying the dishes. Vianne could smell the sweet, sharp scent of Antoine's after-supper cigarette wafting through the house. "Papa didn't laugh at a single one of my stories today," Sophie said as Vianne placed the dishes back in the rough wooden rack that hung on the wall. "Something is wrong with him." "No laughter? Well, certainly that [is]{.ePub-I} cause for alarm." "He's worried about the war." The war. Again. Vianne shooed her daughter out of the kitchen. Upstairs, in Sophie's bedroom, Vianne sat on the double bed, listening to her daughter chatter as she put on her pajamas and brushed her teeth and got into bed. Vianne leaned down to kiss her good night. "I'm scared," Sophie said. "Is war coming?" "Don't be afraid," Vianne said. "Papa will protect us." But even as she said it, she remembered another time, when her maman had said to her, [Don't be afraid.]{.ePub-I} It was when her own father had gone off to war. Sophie looked unconvinced. "But---" "But nothing. There is nothing to worry about. Now go to sleep." She kissed her daughter again, letting her lips linger on the little girl's cheek. Vianne went down the stairs and headed for the backyard. Outside, the night was sultry; the air smelled of jasmine. She found Antoine sitting in one of the iron café chairs out on the grass, his legs stretched out, his body slumped uncomfortably to one side. She came up beside him, put a hand on his shoulder. He exhaled smoke and took another long drag on the cigarette. Then he looked up at her. In the moonlight, his face appeared pale and shadowed. Almost unfamiliar. He reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a piece of paper. "I have been mobilized, Vianne. Along with most men between eighteen and thirty-five." "Mobilized? But ... we are not at war. I don't---" "I am to report for duty on Tuesday." "But ... but ... you're a postman." He held her gaze and suddenly she couldn't breathe. "I am a soldier now, it seems." []{#chapter3.xhtml}   [THREE](#contents.xhtml#c_ch3) Vianne knew something of war. Not its clash and clatter and smoke and blood, perhaps, but the aftermath. Though she had been born in peacetime, her earliest memories were of the war. She remembered watching her maman cry as she said good-bye to Papa. She remembered being hungry and always being cold. But most of all, she remembered how different her father was when he came home, how he limped and sighed and was silent. That was when he began drinking and keeping to himself and ignoring his family. After that, she remembered doors slamming shut, arguments erupting and disappearing into clumsy silences, and her parents sleeping in different rooms. The father who went off to war was not the one who came home. She had tried to be loved by him; more important, she had tried to keep loving him, but in the end, one was as impossible as the other. In the years since he'd shipped her off to Carriveau, Vianne had made her own life. She sent her father Christmas and birthday cards, but she'd never received one in return, and they rarely spoke. What was there left to say? Unlike Isabelle, who seemed incapable of letting go, Vianne understood---and accepted---that when Maman had died, their family had been irreparably broken. He was a man who simply refused to be a father to his children. "I know how war scares you," Antoine said. "The Maginot Line will hold," she said, trying to sound convincing. "You'll be home by Christmas." The Maginot Line was miles and miles of concrete walls and obstacles and weapons that had been constructed along the German border after the Great War to protect France. The Germans couldn't breach it. Antoine took her in his arms. The scent of jasmine was intoxicating, and she knew suddenly, certainly, that from now on, whenever she smelled jasmine, she would remember this good-bye. "I love you, Antoine Mauriac, and I expect you to come home to me." Later, she couldn't remember them moving into the house, climbing the stairs, lying down in bed, undressing each other. She remembered only being naked in his arms, lying beneath him as he made love to her in a way he never had before, with frantic, searching kisses and hands that seemed to want to tear her apart even as they held her together. "You're stronger than you think you are, V," he said afterward, when they lay quietly in each other's arms. "I'm not," she whispered too quietly for him to hear. \*   \*   \* The next morning, Vianne wanted to keep Antoine in bed all day, maybe even convince him that they should pack their bags and run like thieves in the night. But where would they go? War hung over all of Europe. By the time she finished making breakfast and doing the dishes, a headache throbbed at the base of her skull. "You seem sad, Maman," Sophie said. "How can I be sad on a gorgeous summer's day when we are going to visit our best friends?" Vianne smiled a bit too brightly. It wasn't until she was out the front door and standing beneath one of the apple trees in the front yard that she realized she was barefoot. "Maman," Sophie said impatiently. "I'm coming," she said, as she followed Sophie through the front yard, past the old dovecote (now a gardening shed) and the empty barn. Sophie opened the back gate and ran into the well-tended neighboring yard, toward a small stone cottage with blue shutters. Sophie knocked once, got no answer, and went inside. "Sophie!" Vianne said sharply, but her admonishment fell on deaf ears. Manners were unnecessary at one's best friend's house, and Rachel de Champlain had been Vianne's best friend for fifteen years. They'd met only a month after Papa had so ignominiously dropped his children off at Le Jardin. They'd been a pair back then: Vianne, slight and pale and nervous, and Rachel, as tall as the boys, with eyebrows that grew faster than a lie and a voice like a foghorn. Outsiders, both of them, until they met. They'd become inseparable in school and stayed friends in all the years since. They'd gone to university together and both had become schoolteachers. They'd even been pregnant at the same time. Now they taught in side-by-side classrooms at the local school. Rachel appeared in the open doorway, holding her newborn son, Ariel. A look passed between the women. In it was everything they felt and feared. Vianne followed her friend into a small, brightly lit interior that was as neat as a pin. A vase full of wildflowers graced the rough wooden trestle table flanked by mismatched chairs. In the corner of the dining room was a leather valise, and sitting on top of it was the brown felt fedora that Rachel's husband, Marc, favored. Rachel went into the kitchen for a small crockery plate full of [canelés]{.ePub-I}. Then the women headed outside. In the small backyard, roses grew along a privet hedge. A table and four chairs sat unevenly on a stone patio. Antique lanterns hung from the branches of a chestnut tree. Vianne picked up a [canelé]{.ePub-I} and took a bite, savoring the vanilla-rich cream center and crispy, slightly burned-tasting exterior. She sat down. Rachel sat down across from her, with the baby asleep in her arms. Silence seemed to expand between them and fill with their fears and misgivings. "I wonder if he'll know his father," Rachel said as she looked down at her baby. "They'll be changed," Vianne said, remembering. Her father had been in the Battle of the Somme, in which more than three-quarters of a million men had lost their lives. Rumors of German atrocities had come home with the few who survived. Rachel moved the infant to her shoulder, patted his back soothingly. "Marc is no good at changing diapers. And Ari loves to sleep in our bed. I guess that'll be all right now." Vianne felt a smile start. It was a little thing, this joke, but it helped. "Antoine's snoring is a pain in the backside. I should get some good sleep." "And we can have poached eggs for supper." "Only half the laundry," she said, but then her voice broke. "I'm not strong enough for this, Rachel." "Of course you are. We'll get through it together." "Before I met Antoine..." Rachel waved a hand dismissively. "I know. I know. You were as skinny as a branch, you stuttered when you got nervous, and you were allergic to everything. I know. I was there. But that's all over now. You'll be strong. You know why?" "Why?" Rachel's smile faded. "I know I'm big---statuesque, as they like to say when they're selling me brassieres and stockings---but I feel ... undone by this, V. I am going to need to lean on you sometimes, too. Not with [all]{.ePub-I} my weight, of course." "So we can't both fall apart at the same time." ["Voilà,"]{.ePub-I} Rachel said. "Our plan. Should we open a bottle of cognac now, or gin?" "It's ten o'clock in the morning." "You're right. Of course. A French 75." \*   \*   \* On Tuesday morning when Vianne awoke, sunlight poured through the window, glazing the exposed timbers. Antoine sat in the chair by the window, a walnut rocker he'd made during Vianne's second pregnancy. For years that empty rocker had mocked them. The miscarriage years, as she thought of them now. Desolation in a land of plenty. Three lost lives in four years; tiny thready heartbeats, blue hands. And then, miraculously: a baby who survived. Sophie. There were sad little ghosts caught in the wood grain of that chair, but there were good memories, too. "Maybe you should take Sophie to Paris," he said as she sat up. "Julien would look out for you." "My father has made his opinion on living with his daughters quite clear. I cannot expect a welcome from him." Vianne pushed the matelasse coverlet aside and rose, putting her bare feet on the worn rug. "Will you be all right?" "Sophie and I will be fine. You'll be home in no time anyway. The Maginot Line will hold. And Lord knows the Germans are no match for us." "Too bad their weapons are. I took all of our money out of the bank. There are sixty-five thousand francs in the mattress. Use it wisely, Vianne. Along with your teaching salary, it should last you a good long time." She felt a flutter of panic. She knew too little about their finances. Antoine handled them. He stood up slowly and took her in his arms. She wanted to bottle how safe she felt in this moment, so she could drink of it later when loneliness and fear left her parched. [Remember this,]{.ePub-I} she thought. The way the light caught in his unruly hair, the love in his brown eyes, the chapped lips that had kissed her only an hour ago, in the darkness. Through the open window behind them, she heard the slow, even clop-clop-clop of a horse moving up the road and the clattering of the wagon being pulled along behind. That would be Monsieur Quillian on his way to market with his flowers. If she were in the yard, he would stop and give her one and say it couldn't match her beauty, and she would smile and say [merci]{.ePub-I} and offer him something to drink. Vianne pulled away reluctantly. She went over to the wooden dresser and poured tepid water from the blue crockery pitcher into the bowl and washed her face. In the alcove that served as their wardrobe, behind a pair of gold and white toile curtains, she put on her brassiere and stepped into her lace-trimmed drawers and garter. She smoothed the silk stockings up her legs, fastened them to her garters, and then slipped into a belted cotton frock with a squared yoke collar. When she closed the curtains and turned around, Antoine was gone. She retrieved her handbag and went down the hallway to Sophie's room. Like theirs, it was small, with a steeply pitched, timbered ceiling, wide plank wooden floors, and a window that overlooked the orchard. An ironwork bed, a nightstand with a hand-me-down lamp, and a blue-painted armoire filled the space. Sophie's drawings decorated the walls. Vianne opened the shutters and let light flood the room. As usual in the hot summer months, Sophie had kicked the coverlet to the floor sometime in the night. Her pink stuffed teddy bear, Bébé, slept against her cheek. Vianne picked up the bear, staring down at its matted, much petted face. Last year, Bébé had been forgotten on a shelf by the window as Sophie moved on to newer toys. Now Bébé was back. Vianne leaned down to kiss her daughter's cheek. Sophie rolled over and blinked awake. "I don't want Papa to go, Maman," she whispered. She reached out for Bébé, practically snatched the bear from Vianne's hands. "I know." Vianne sighed. "I know." Vianne went to the armoire, where she picked out the sailor dress that was Sophie's favorite. "Can I wear the daisy crown Papa made me?" The daisy "crown" lay crumpled on the nightstand, the little flowers wilted. Vianne picked it up gently and placed it on Sophie's head. Vianne thought she was doing all right until she stepped into the living room and saw Antoine. "Papa?" Sophie touched the wilted daisy crown uncertainly. "Don't go." Antoine knelt down and drew Sophie into his embrace. "I have to be a soldier to keep you and Maman safe. But I'll be back before you know it." Vianne heard the crack in his voice. Sophie drew back. The daisy crown was sagging down the side of her head. "You promise you'll come home?" Antoine looked past his daughter's earnest face to Vianne's worried gaze. ["Oui,"]{.ePub-I} he said at last. Sophie nodded. The three of them were silent as they left the house. They walked hand in hand up the hillside to the gray wooden barn. Knee-high golden grass covered the knoll, and lilac bushes as big as hay wagons grew along the perimeter of the property. Three small white crosses were all that remained in this world to mark the babies Vianne had lost. Today, she didn't let her gaze linger there at all. Her emotions were heavy enough right now; she couldn't add the weight of those memories, too. Inside the barn sat their old, green Renault. When they were all in the automobile, Antoine started up the engine, backed out of the barn, and drove on browning ribbons of dead grass to the road. Vianne stared out the small, dusty window, watching the green valley pass in a blur of familiar images---red tile roofs, stone cottages, fields of hay and grapes, spindly-treed forests. All too quickly they arrived at the train station near Tours. The platform was filled with young men carrying suitcases and women kissing them good-bye and children crying. A generation of men were going off to war. Again. [Don't think about it,]{.ePub-I} Vianne told herself. [Don't remember what it was like last time when the men limped home, faces burned, missing arms and legs ... ]{.ePub-I} Vianne clung to her husband's hand as Antoine bought their tickets and led them onto the train. In the third-class carriage---stiflingly hot, people packed in like marsh reeds---she sat stiffly upright, still holding her husband's hand, with her handbag on her lap. At their destination, a dozen or so men disembarked. Vianne and Sophie and Antoine followed the others down a cobblestoned street and into a charming village that looked like most small communes in Touraine. How was it possible that war was coming and that this quaint town with its tumbling flowers and crumbling walls was amassing soldiers to fight? Antoine tugged at her hand, got her moving again. When had she stopped? Up ahead a set of tall, recently erected iron gates had been bolted into stone walls. Behind them were rows of temporary housing. The gates swung open. A soldier on horseback rode out to greet the new arrivals, his leather saddle creaking at the horse's steps, his face dusty and flushed from heat. He pulled on the reins and the horse halted, throwing its head and snorting. An aeroplane droned overhead. "You, men," the soldier said. "Bring your papers to the lieutenant over there by the gate. Now. Move." Antoine kissed Vianne with a gentleness that made her want to cry. "I love you," he said against her lips. "I love you, too," she said but the words that always seemed so big felt small now. What was love when put up against war? "Me, too, Papa. Me, too!" Sophie cried, flinging herself into his arms. They embraced as a family, one last time, until Antoine pulled back. "Good-bye," he said. Vianne couldn't say it in return. She watched him walk away, watched him merge into the crowd of laughing, talking young men, becoming indistinguishable. The big iron gates slammed shut, the clang of metal reverberating in the hot, dusty air, and Vianne and Sophie stood alone in the middle of the street. []{#chapter4.xhtml}   [FOUR](#contents.xhtml#c_ch4) [June 1940]{.ePub-I} [France]{.ePub-I} The medieval villa dominated a deeply green, forested hillside. It looked like something in a confectioner's shopwindow; a castle sculpted of caramel, with spun-sugar windows and shutters the color of candied apples. Far below, a deep blue lake absorbed the reflection of the clouds. Manicured gardens allowed the villa's occupants---and, more important, their guests---to stroll about the grounds, where only acceptable topics were to be discussed. In the formal dining room, Isabelle Rossignol sat stiffly erect at the white-clothed table that easily accommodated twenty-four diners. Everything in this room was pale. Walls and floor and ceiling were all crafted of oyster-hued stone. The ceiling arched into a peak nearly twenty feet overhead. Sound was amplified in this cold room, as trapped as the occupants. Madame Dufour stood at the head of the table, dressed in a severe black dress that revealed the soup spoon--sized hollow at the base of her long neck. A single diamond brooch was her only adornment (one good piece, ladies, and choose it well; everything makes a statement, nothing speaks quite so loudly as cheapness). Her narrow face ended in a blunt chin and was framed by curls so obviously peroxided the desired impression of youth was quite undone. "The trick," she was saying in a cultivated voice, clipped and cut, "is to be completely quiet and unremarkable in your task." Each of the girls at the table wore the fitted blue woolen jacket and skirt that was the school uniform. It wasn't so bad in the winter, but on this hot June afternoon, the ensemble was unbearable. Isabelle could feel herself beginning to sweat, and no amount of lavender in her soap could mask the sharp scent of her perspiration. She stared down at the unpeeled orange placed in the center of her Limoges china plate. Flatware lay in precise formation on either side of the plate. Salad fork, dinner fork, knife, spoon, butter knife, fish fork. It went on and on. "Now," Madame Dufour said. "Pick up the correct utensils---quietly, [s'il vous plaît,]{.ePub-I} quietly, and peel your orange." Isabelle picked up her fork and tried to ease the sharp prongs into the heavy peel, but the orange rolled away from her and bumped over the gilt edge of the plate, clattering the china. ["Merde,"]{.ePub-I} she muttered, grabbing the orange before it fell to the floor. ["Merde?"]{.ePub-I} Madame Dufour was beside her. Isabelle jumped in her seat. [Mon Dieu,]{.ePub-I} the woman moved like a viper in the reeds. "Pardon, Madame," Isabelle said, returning the orange to its place. "Mademoiselle Rossignol," Madame said. "How is it that you have graced our halls for two years and learned so little?" Isabelle again stabbed the orange with her fork. A graceless---but effective---move. Then she smiled up at Madame. "Generally, Madame, the failing of a student to learn is the failing of the teacher to teach." Breaths were indrawn all down the table. "Ah," Madame said. "So we are the reason you still cannot manage to eat an orange properly." Isabelle tried to slice through the peel---too hard, too fast. The silver blade slipped off the puckered peel and clanged on the china plate. Madame Dufour's hand snaked out; her fingers coiled around Isabelle's wrist. All up and down the table, the girls watched. "Polite conversation, girls," Madame said, smiling thinly. "No one wants a statue for a dinner partner." On cue, the girls began speaking quietly to one another about things that did not interest Isabelle. Gardening, weather, fashion. Acceptable topics for women. Isabelle heard the girl next to her say quietly, "I am so very fond of Alençon lace, aren't you?" and really, it was all she could do to keep from screaming. "Mademoiselle Rossignol," Madame said. "You will go see Madame Allard and tell her that our experiment has come to an end." "What does that mean?" "She will know. Go." Isabelle scooted back from the table quickly, lest Madame change her mind. Madame's face scrunched in displeasure at the loud screech the chair legs made on the stone floor. Isabelle smiled. "I really do not like oranges, you know." "Really?" Madame said sarcastically. Isabelle wanted to run from this stifling room, but she was already in enough trouble, so she forced herself to walk slowly, her shoulders back, her chin up. At the stairs (which she could navigate with three books on her head if required), she glanced sideways, saw that she was alone, and rushed down. In the hallway below, she slowed and straightened. By the time she reached the headmistress's office, she wasn't even breathing hard. She knocked. At Madame's flat "Come in," Isabelle opened the door. Madame Allard sat behind a gilt-trimmed mahogany writing desk. Medieval tapestries hung from the stone walls of the room and an arched, leaded-glass window overlooked gardens so sculpted they were more art than nature. Even birds rarely landed here; no doubt they sensed the stifling atmosphere and flew on. Isabelle sat down---remembering an instant too late that she hadn't been offered a seat. She popped back up. "Pardon, Madame." "Sit down, Isabelle." She did, carefully crossing her ankles as a lady should, clasping her hands together. "Madame Dufour asked me to tell you that the experiment is over." Madame reached for one of the Murano fountain pens on her desk and picked it up, tapping it on the desk. "Why are you here, Isabelle?" "I hate oranges." "Pardon?" "And if I [were]{.ePub-I} to eat an orange---which, honestly, Madame, why would I when I don't like them---I would use my hands like the Americans do. Like everyone does, really. A fork and knife to eat an orange?" "I mean, why are you at the school?" "Oh. That. Well, the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Avignon expelled me. For nothing, I might add." "And the Sisters of St. Francis?" "Ah. They had reason to expel me." "And the school before that?" Isabelle didn't know what to say. Madame put down her fountain pen. "You are almost nineteen." "[Oui,]{.ePub-I} Madame." "I think it's time for you to leave." Isabelle got to her feet. "Shall I return to the orange lesson?" "You misunderstand. I mean you should leave the school, Isabelle. It is clear that you are not interested in learning what we have to teach you." "How to eat an orange and when you can spread cheese and who is more important---the second son of a duke or a daughter who won't inherit or an ambassador to an unimportant country? Madame, do you not know what is going on in the world?" Isabelle might have been secreted deep in the countryside, but still she knew. Even here, barricaded behind hedges and bludgeoned by politeness, she knew what was happening in France. At night in her monastic cell, while her classmates were in bed, she sat up, long into the night, listening to the BBC on her contraband radio. France had joined Britain in declaring war on Germany, and Hitler was on the move. All across France people had stockpiled food and put up blackout shades and learned to live like moles in the dark. They had prepared and worried and then ... nothing. Month after month, nothing happened. At first all anyone could talk about was the Great War and the losses that had touched so many families, but as the months went on, and there was only [talk]{.ePub-I} of war, Isabelle heard her teachers calling it the [drôle de guerre,]{.ePub-I} the phony war. The real horror was happening elsewhere in Europe; in Belgium and Holland and Poland. "Will manners not matter in war, Isabelle?" "They don't matter [now,]{.ePub-I}" Isabelle said impulsively, wishing a moment later that she'd said nothing. Madame stood. "We were never the right place for you, but..." "My father would put me anywhere to be rid of me," she said. Isabelle would rather blurt out the truth than hear another lie. She had learned many lessons in the parade of schools and convents that had housed her for more than a decade---most of all, she'd learned that she had to rely on herself. Certainly her father and her sister couldn't be counted on. Madame looked at Isabelle. Her nose flared ever so slightly, an indication of polite but pained disapproval. "It is hard for a man to lose his wife." "It is hard for a girl to lose her mother." She smiled defiantly. "I lost both parents though, didn't I? One died, and the other turned his back on me. I can't say which hurt more." "[Mon Dieu,]{.ePub-I} Isabelle, must you always speak whatever is on your mind?" Isabelle had heard this criticism all her life, but why should she hold her tongue? No one listened to her either way. "So you will leave today. I will telegram your father. Tómas will take you to the train." "Tonight?" Isabelle blinked. "But ... Papa won't want me." "Ah. Consequences," Madame said. "Perhaps now you will see that they should be considered." \*   \*   \* Isabelle was alone on a train again, heading toward an unknown reception. She stared out the dirty, mottled window at the flashing green landscape: fields of hay, red roofs, stone cottages, gray bridges, horses. Everything looked exactly as it always had and that surprised her. War was coming, and she'd imagined it would leave a mark on the countryside somehow, changing the grass color or killing the trees or scaring away the birds, but now, as she sat on this train chugging into Paris, she saw that everything looked completely ordinary. At the sprawling Gare de Lyon, the train came to a wheezing, belching stop. Isabelle reached down for the small valise at her feet and pulled it onto her lap. As she watched the passengers shuffle past her, exiting the train carriage, the question she'd avoided came back to her. Papa. She wanted to believe he would welcome her home, that finally, he would hold out his hands and say her name in a loving way, the way he had Before, when Maman had been the glue that held them together. She stared down at her scuffed suitcase. So small. Most of the girls in the schools she'd attended had arrived with a collection of trunks bound in leather straps and studded with brass tacks. They had pictures on their desks and mementos on their nightstands and photograph albums in their drawers. Isabelle had a single framed photograph of a woman she wanted to remember and couldn't. When she tried, all that came to her were blurry images of people crying and the physician shaking his head and her mother saying something about holding tightly to her sister's hand. As if that would help. Vianne had been as quick to abandon Isabelle as Papa had been. She realized that she was the only one left in the carriage. Clasping her suitcase in her gloved hand, she sidled out of the seat and exited the carriage. The platforms were full of people. Trains stood in shuddering rows; smoke filled the air, puffed up toward the high, arched ceiling. Somewhere a whistle blared. Great iron wheels began to churn. The platform trembled beneath her feet. Her father stood out, even in the crowd. When he spotted her, she saw the irritation that transformed his features, reshaped his expression into one of grim determination. He was a tall man, at least six foot two, but he had been bent by the Great War. Or at least that was what Isabelle remembered hearing once. His broad shoulders sloped downward, as if posture were too much to think about with all that was on his mind. His thinning hair was gray and unkempt. He had a broad, flattened nose, like a spatula, and lips as thin as an afterthought. On this hot summer day, he wore a wrinkled white shirt, with sleeves rolled up; a tie hung loosely tied around his fraying collar, and his corduroy pants were in need of laundering. She tried to look ... mature. Perhaps that was what he wanted of her. "Isabelle." She clutched her suitcase handle in both hands. "Papa." "Kicked out of another one." She nodded, swallowing hard. "How will we find another school in these times?" That was her opening. "I want to live with you, Papa." "With me?" He seemed irritated and surprised. But wasn't it normal for a girl to want to live with her father? She took a step toward him. "I could work in the bookstore. I won't get in your way." She drew in a sharp breath, waiting. Sound amplified suddenly. She heard people walking, the platforms groaning beneath them, pigeons flapping their wings overhead, a baby crying. [Of course, Isabelle.]{.ePub-I} [Come home.]{.ePub-I} Her father sighed in disgust and walked away. "Well," he said, looking back. "Are you coming?" \*   \*   \* Isabelle lay on a blanket in the sweet-smelling grass, a book open in front of her. Somewhere nearby a bee buzzed at a blossom; it sounded like a tiny motorcycle amid all this quiet. It was a blisteringly hot day, a week after she'd come home to Paris. Well, not [home]{.ePub-I}. She knew her father was still plotting to be rid of her, but she didn't want to think about that on such a gorgeous day, in the air that smelled of cherries and sweet, green grass. "You read too much," Christophe said, chewing on a stalk of hay. "What is that, a romantic novel?" She rolled toward him, snapping the book shut. It was about Edith Cavell, a nurse in the Great War. A hero. "I could be a war hero, Christophe." He laughed. "A girl? A hero? Absurd." Isabelle got to her feet quickly, yanking up her hat and white kid gloves. "Don't be mad," he said, grinning up at her. "I'm just tired of the war talk. And it's a fact that women are useless in war. Your job is to wait for our return." He propped his cheek in one hand and peered up at her through the mop of blond hair that fell across his eyes. In his yachting-style blazer and wide-legged white pants, he looked exactly like what he was---a privileged university student who was unused to work of any kind. Many students his age had volunteered to leave university and join the army. Not Christophe. Isabelle hiked up the hill and through the orchard, out to the grassy knoll where his open-topped Panhard was parked. She was already behind the wheel, with the engine running, when Christophe appeared, a sheen of sweat on his conventionally handsome face, the empty picnic basket hanging from his arm. "Just throw that stuff in the back," she said with a bright smile. "You're not driving." "It appears that I am. Now get in." "It's my automobile, Isabelle." "Well, to be precise---and I know how important the facts are to you, Christophe---it's your mother's automobile. And I believe a woman should drive a woman's automobile." Isabelle tried not to smile when he rolled his eyes and muttered "fine" and leaned over to place the basket behind Isabelle's seat. Then, moving slowly enough to make his point, he walked around the front of the automobile and took his place in the seat beside her. He had no sooner clicked the door shut than she put the automobile in gear and stomped on the gas. The automobile hesitated for a second, then lurched forward, spewing dust and smoke as it gathered speed. "[Mon Dieu,]{.ePub-I} Isabelle. Slow down!" She held on to her flapping straw hat with one hand and clutched the steering wheel with the other. She barely slowed as she passed other motorists. "[Mon Dieu,]{.ePub-I} slow down," he said again. Certainly he must know that she had no intention of complying. "A woman can go to war these days," Isabelle said when the Paris traffic finally forced her to slow down. "I could be an ambulance driver, maybe. Or I could work on breaking secret codes. Or charming the enemy into telling me a secret location or plan. Remember that game---" "War is not a game, Isabelle." "I believe I know that, Christophe. But if it [does]{.ePub-I} come, I can help. That's all I'm saying." On the rue de l'Amiral de Coligny, she had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a lorry. A convoy from the Comédie Française was pulling out of the Louvre museum. In fact, there were lorries everywhere and uniformed gendarmes directing traffic. Sandbags were piled up around several buildings and monuments to protect from attack---of which there had been none since France joined the war. Why were there so many French policemen out here? "Odd," Isabelle mumbled, frowning. Christophe craned his neck to see what was going on. "They're moving treasures out of the Louvre," he said. Isabelle saw a break in traffic and sped up. In no time, she had pulled up in front of her father's bookshop and parked. She waved good-bye to Christophe and ducked into the shop. It was long and narrow, lined from floor to ceiling with books. Over the years, her father had tried to increase his inventory by building freestanding bookcases. The result of his "improvements" was the creation of a labyrinth. The stacks led one this way and that, deeper and deeper within. At the very back were the books for tourists. Some stacks were well lit, some in shadows. There weren't enough outlets to illuminate every nook and cranny. But her father knew every title on every shelf. "You're late," he said, looking up from his desk in the back. He was doing something with the printing press, probably making one of his books of poetry, which no one ever purchased. His blunt-tipped fingers were stained blue. "I suppose boys are more important to you than employment." She slid onto the stool behind the cash register. In the week she'd lived with her father she'd made it a point not to argue back, although acquiescing gnawed at her. She tapped her foot impatiently. Words, phrases---excuses---clamored to be spoken aloud. It was hard not to tell him how she felt, but she knew how badly he wanted her gone, so she held her tongue. "Do you hear that?" he said sometime later. Had she fallen asleep? Isabelle sat up. She hadn't heard her father approach, but he was beside her now, frowning. There was a strange sound in the bookshop, to be sure. Dust fell from the ceiling; the bookcases clattered slightly, making a sound like chattering teeth. Shadows passed in front of the leaded-glass display windows at the entrance. Hundreds of them. People? So many of them? Papa went to the door. Isabelle slid off her stool and followed him. As he opened the door, she saw a crowd running down the street, filling the sidewalks. "What in the world?" Papa muttered. Isabelle pushed past Papa, elbowed her way into the crowd. A man bumped into her so hard she stumbled, and he didn't even apologize. More people rushed past them. "What is it? What's happened?" she asked a florid, wheezing man who was trying to break free of the crowd. "The Germans are coming into Paris," he said. "We must leave. I was in the Great War. I know..." Isabelle scoffed. "Germans in Paris? Impossible." He ran away, bobbing from side to side, weaving, his hands fisting and unfisting at his sides. "We must get home," Papa said, locking the bookshop door. "It can't be true," she said. "The worst can always be true," Papa said grimly. "Stay close to me," he added, moving into the crowd. Isabelle had never seen such panic. All up and down the street, lights were coming on, automobiles were starting, doors were slamming shut. People screamed to one another and reached out, trying to stay connected in the melee. Isabelle stayed close to her father. The pandemonium in the streets slowed them down. The Métro tunnels were too crowded to navigate, so they had to walk all the way. It was nearing nightfall when they finally made it home. At their apartment building, it took her father two tries to open the main door, his hands were shaking so badly. Once in, they ignored the rickety cage elevator and hurried up five flights of stairs to their apartment. "Don't turn on the lights," her father said harshly as he opened the door. Isabelle followed him into the living room and went past him to the window, where she lifted the blackout shade, peering out. From far away came a droning sound. As it grew louder, the window rattled, sounding like ice in a glass. She heard a high whistling sound only seconds before she saw the black flotilla in the sky, like birds flying in formation. Aeroplanes. "Boches," her father whispered. Germans. German aeroplanes, flying over Paris. The whistling sound increased, became like a woman's scream, and then somewhere---maybe in the second arrondissement, she thought---a bomb exploded in a flash of eerie bright light, and something caught fire. The air raid siren sounded. Her father wrenched the curtains shut and led her out of the apartment and down the stairs. Their neighbors were all doing the same thing, carrying coats and babies and pets down the stairs to the lobby and then down the narrow, twisting stone stairs that led to the cellar. In the dark, they sat together, crowded in close. The air stank of mildew and body odor and fear---that was the sharpest scent of all. The bombing went on and on and on, screeching and droning, the cellar walls vibrating around them; dust fell from the ceiling. A baby started crying and couldn't be soothed. "Shut that child up, [please,"]{.ePub-I} someone snapped. "I am trying, M'sieur. He is scared." "So are we all." After what felt like an eternity, silence fell. It was almost worse than the noise. What of Paris was left? By the time the all clear sounded, Isabelle felt numb. "Isabelle?" She wanted her father to reach out for her, to take her hand and comfort her, even if it was just for a moment, but he turned away from her and headed up the dark, twisting basement stairs. In their apartment, Isabelle went immediately to the window, peering past the shade to look for the Eiffel Tower. It was still there, rising above a wall of thick black smoke. "Don't stand by the windows," he said. She turned slowly. The only light in the room was from his torch, a sickly yellow thread in the dark. "Paris won't fall," she said. He said nothing. Frowned. She wondered if he was thinking of the Great War and what he'd seen in the trenches. Perhaps his injury was hurting again, aching in sympathy with the sound of falling bombs and hissing flames. "Go to bed, Isabelle." "How can I possibly sleep at a time like this?" He sighed. "You will learn that a lot of things are possible." []{#chapter5.xhtml}   [FIVE](#contents.xhtml#c_ch5) They had been lied to by their government. They'd been assured, time and time again, that the Maginot Line would keep the Germans out of France. Lies. Neither concrete and steel nor French soldiers could stop Hitler's march, and the government had run from Paris like thieves in the night. It was said they were in Tours, strategizing, but what good did strategy do when Paris was to be overrun by the enemy? "Are you ready?" "I am not going, Papa. I have told you this." She had dressed for travel---as he'd asked---in a red polka-dot summer dress and low heels. "We will not have this conversation again, Isabelle. The Humberts will be here soon to pick you up. They will take you as far as Tours. From there, I leave it to your ingenuity to get to your sister's house. Lord knows you have always been adept at running away." "So you throw me out. Again." "Enough of this, Isabelle. Your sister's husband is at the front. She is alone with her daughter. You will do as I say. You will leave Paris." Did he know how this hurt her? Did he care? "You've never cared about Vianne or me. And she doesn't want me any more than you do." "You're going," he said. "I want to stay and fight, Papa. To be like Edith Cavell." He rolled his eyes. "You remember how she died? Executed by the Germans." "Papa, please." "Enough. I have seen what they can do, Isabelle. You have not." "If it's that bad, you should come with me." "And leave the apartment and bookshop to them?" He grabbed her by the hand and dragged her out of the apartment and down the stairs, her straw hat and valise banging into the wall, her breath coming in gasps. At last he opened the door and pulled her out onto the Avenue de La Bourdonnais. Chaos. Dust. Crowds. The street was a living, breathing dragon of humanity, inching forward, wheezing dirt, honking horns; people yelling for help, babies crying, and the smell of sweat heavy in the air. Automobiles clogged the area, each burdened beneath boxes and bags. People had taken whatever they could find---carts and bicycles and even children's wagons. Those who couldn't find or afford the petrol or an automobile or a bicycle walked. Hundreds---thousands---of women and children held hands, shuffled forward, carrying as much as they could hold. Suitcases, picnic baskets, pets. Already the very old and very young were falling behind. Isabelle didn't want to join this hopeless, helpless crowd of women and children and old people. While the young men were away---dying for them at the front---their families were leaving, heading south or west, although, really, what made any of them think it would be safer there? Hitler's troops had already invaded Poland and Belgium and Czechoslovakia. The crowd engulfed them. A woman ran into Isabelle, mumbled pardon, and kept walking. Isabelle followed her father. "I can be useful. Please. I'll be a nurse or drive an ambulance. I can roll bandages or even stitch up a wound." Beside them, a horn [aah-ooh-gahed]{.ePub-I}. Her father looked past her, and she saw the relief that lifted his countenance. Isabelle recognized that look: it meant he was getting rid of her. Again. "They are here," he said. "Don't send me away," she said. "Please." He maneuvered her through the crowd to where a dusty black automobile was parked. It had a saggy, stained mattress strapped to its roof, along with a set of fishing poles and a rabbit cage with the rabbit still inside. The boot was open but also strapped down; inside she saw a jumble of baskets and suitcases and lamps. Inside the automobile, Monsieur Humbert's pale, plump fingers clutched the steering wheel as if the automobile were a horse that might bolt at any second. He was a pudgy man who spent his days in the butcher shop near Papa's bookstore. His wife, Patricia, was a sturdy woman who had the heavy-jowled-peasant look one saw so often in the country. She was smoking a cigarette and staring out the window as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Monsieur Humbert rolled down his window and poked his face into the opening. "Hello, Julien. She is ready?" Papa nodded. "She is ready. [Merci,]{.ePub-I} Edouard." Patricia leaned over to talk to Papa through the open window. "We are only going as far as Orléans. And she has to pay her share of petrol." "Of course." Isabelle couldn't leave. It was cowardly. Wrong. "Papa---" ["Au revoir,"]{.ePub-I} he said firmly enough to remind her that she had no choice. He nodded toward the car and she moved numbly toward it. She opened the back door and saw three small, dirty girls lying together, eating crackers and drinking from bottles and playing with dolls. The last thing she wanted was to join them, but she pushed her way in, made a space for herself among these strangers that smelled vaguely of cheese and sausage, and closed the door. Twisting around in her seat, she stared at her father through the back window. His face held her gaze; she saw his mouth bend ever so slightly downward; it was the only hint that he saw her. The crowd surged around him like water around a rock, until all she could see was the wall of bedraggled strangers coming up behind the car. Isabelle faced forward in her seat again. Out her window, a young woman stared back at her, wild eyes, hair a bird's nest, an infant suckling on her breast. The car moved slowly, sometimes inching forward, sometimes stopped for long periods of time. Isabelle watched her countrymen---country[women]{.ePub-I}---shuffle past her, looking dazed and terrified and confused. Every now and then one of them would pound on the car bonnet or boot, begging for something. They kept the windows rolled up even though the heat in the car was stifling. At first, she was sad to be leaving, and then her anger bloomed, growing hotter even than the air in the back of this stinking car. She was so tired of being considered disposable. First, her papa had abandoned her, and then Vianne had pushed her aside. She closed her eyes to hide tears she couldn't suppress. In the darkness that smelled of sausage and sweat and smoke, with the children arguing beside her, she remembered the first time she'd been sent away. The long train ride ... Isabelle stuffed in beside Vianne, who did nothing but sniff and cry and pretend to sleep. And then Madame looking down her copper pipe of a nose saying, [They will be no trouble.]{.ePub-I} Although she'd been young---only four---Isabelle thought she'd learned what alone meant, but she'd been wrong. In the three years she'd lived at Le Jardin, she'd at least [had]{.ePub-I} a sister, even if Vianne was never around. Isabelle remembered peering down from the upstairs window, watching Vianne and her friends from a distance, praying to be remembered, to be invited, and then when Vianne had married Antoine and fired Madame Doom (not her real name, of course, but certainly the truth), Isabelle had believed she was a part of the family. But not for long. When Vianne had her miscarriage, it was instantly [good-bye, Isabelle]{.ePub-I}. Three weeks later---at seven---she'd been in her first boarding school. That was when she really learned about alone. "You. Isabelle. Did you bring food?" Patricia asked. She was turned around in her seat, peering at Isabelle. "No." "Wine?" "I brought money and clothes and books." "Books," Patricia said dismissively, and turned back around. "That should help." Isabelle looked out the window again. What other mistakes had she already made? \*   \*   \* Hours passed. The automobile made its slow, agonizing way south. Isabelle was grateful for the dust. It coated the window and obscured the terrible, depressing scene. People. Everywhere. In front of them, behind them, beside them; so thick was the crowd that the automobile could only inch forward in fits and starts. It was like driving through a swarm of bees that pulled apart for a second and then swarmed again. The sun was punishingly hot. It turned the smelly automobile interior into an oven and beat down on the women outside who were shuffling toward ... what? No one knew what exactly was happening behind them or where safety lay ahead. The car lurched forward and stopped hard. Isabelle hit the seat in front of her. The children immediately started to cry for their mother. ["Merde,"]{.ePub-I} Monsieur Humbert muttered. "M'sieur Humbert," Patricia said primly. "The children." An old woman pounded on the car's bonnet as she shuffled past. "That's it, then, Madame Humbert," he said. "We are out of petrol." Patricia looked like a landed fish. "What?" "I stopped at every chance along the way. You know I did. We have no more petrol and there's none to be had." "But ... well ... what are we to do?" "We'll find a place to stay. Perhaps I can convince my brother to come fetch us." Humbert opened his automobile door, being careful not to hit anyone ambling past, and stepped out onto the dusty, dirt road. "See. There. Étampes is not far ahead. We'll get a room and a meal and it will all look better in the morning." Isabelle sat upright. Surely she had fallen asleep and missed something. Were they going to simply abandon the automobile? "You think we can walk to Tours?" Patricia turned around in her seat. She looked as drained and hot as Isabelle felt. "Perhaps one of your books can help you. Certainly they were a smarter choice than bread or water. Come, girls. Out of the automobile." Isabelle reached down for the valise at her feet. It was wedged in tightly and required some effort to extricate. With a growl of determination, she finally yanked it free and opened the car door and stepped out. She was immediately surrounded by people, pushed and shoved and cursed at. Someone tried to yank her suitcase out of her grasp. She fought for it, hung on. As she clutched it to her body, a woman walked past her, pushing a bicycle laden with possessions. The woman stared at Isabelle hopelessly, her dark eyes revealing exhaustion. Someone else bumped into Isabelle; she stumbled forward and almost fell. Only the thicket of bodies in front of her saved her from going to her knees in the dust and dirt. She heard the person beside her apologize, and Isabelle was about to respond when she remembered the Humberts. She shoved her way around to the other side of the car, crying out, "M'sieur Humbert!" There was no answer, just the ceaseless pounding of feet on the road. She called out Patricia's name, but her cry was lost in the thud of so many feet, so many tires crunching on the dirt. People bumped her, pushed past her. If she fell to her knees, she'd be trampled and die here, alone in the throng of her countrymen. Clutching the smooth leather handle of her valise, she joined the march toward Étampes. She was still walking hours later when night fell. Her feet ached; a blister burned with every step. Hunger walked beside her, poking her insistently with its sharp little elbow, but what could she do about it? She'd packed for a visit with her sister, not an endless exodus. She had her favorite copy of [Madame Bovary]{.ePub-I} and the book everyone was reading---[Autant en emporte le vent---]{.ePub-I}and some clothes; no food or water. She'd expected that this whole journey would last a few hours. Certainly not that she would be [walking]{.ePub-I} to Carriveau. At the top of a small rise, she came to a stop. Moonlight revealed thousands of people walking beside her, in front of her, behind her; jostling her, bumping into her, shoving her forward until she had no choice but to stumble along with them. Hundreds more had chosen this hillside as a resting place. Women and children were camped along the side of the road, in fields and gutters and gullies. The dirt road was littered with broken-down automobiles and belongings; forgotten, discarded, stepped on, too heavy to carry. Women and children lay entangled in the grass or beneath trees or alongside ditches, asleep, their arms coiled around each other. Isabelle came to an exhausted halt on the outskirts of Étampes. The crowd spilled out in front of her, stumbling onto the road to town. And she knew. There would be nowhere to stay in Étampes and nothing to eat. The refugees who had arrived before her would have moved through the town like locusts, buying every foodstuff on the shelves. There wouldn't be a room available. Her money would do her no good. So what should she do? Head southwest, toward Tours and Carriveau. What else? As a girl, she'd studied maps of this region in her quest to return to Paris. She knew this landscape, if only she could [think]{.ePub-I}. She peeled away from the crowd headed toward the collection of moonlit gray stone buildings in the distance and picked her way carefully through the valley. All around her people were seated in the grass or sleeping beneath blankets. She could hear them moving, whispering. Hundreds of them. Thousands. On the far side of the field, she found a trail that ran south along a low stone wall. Turning onto it, she found herself alone. She paused, letting the feel of that settle through her, calm her. Then she began walking again. After a mile or so the trail led her into a copse of spindly trees. She was deep in the woods---trying not to focus on the pain in her toe, the ache in her stomach, the dryness in her throat---when she smelled smoke. And roasting meat. Hunger stripped her resolve and made her careless. She saw the orange glow of the fire and moved toward it. At the last minute, she realized her danger and stopped. A twig snapped beneath her foot. "You may as well come over," said a male voice. "You move like an elephant through the woods." Isabelle froze. She knew she'd been stupid. There could be danger here for a girl alone. "If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead." That was certainly true. He could have come upon her in the dark and slit her throat. She'd been paying attention to nothing except the gnawing in her empty stomach and the aroma of roasting meat. "You can trust me." She stared into the darkness, trying to make him out. Couldn't. "You would say that if the opposite were true, too." A laugh. "[Oui.]{.ePub-I} And now, come here. I have a rabbit on the fire." She followed the glow of firelight over a rocky gully and uphill. The tree trunks around her looked silver in the moonlight. She moved lightly, ready to run in an instant. At the last tree between her and the fire she stopped. A young man sat by the fire, leaning back against a rough trunk, one leg thrust forward, one bent at the knee. He was probably only a few years older than Isabelle. It was hard to see him well in the orange glow. He had longish, stringy black hair that looked unfamiliar with a comb or soap and clothes so tattered and patched she was reminded of the war refugees who'd so recently shuffled through Paris, hoarding cigarettes and bits of paper and empty bottles, begging for change or help. He had the pale, unwholesome look of someone who never knew where his next meal was coming from. And yet he was offering her food. "I hope you are a gentleman," she said from her place in the darkness. He laughed. "I'm sure you do." She stepped into the light cast by the fire. "Sit," he said. She sat across from him in the grass. He leaned around the fire and handed her the bottle of wine. She took a long drink, so long he laughed as she handed him back the bottle and wiped wine from her chin. "What a pretty drunkard you are." She had no idea how to answer that. He smiled. "Gaëtan Dubois. My friends call me Gaët." "Isabelle Rossignol." "Ah, a nightingale." She shrugged. It was hardly a new observation. Her surname meant "nightingale." Maman had called Vianne and Isabelle her nightingales as she kissed them good night. It was one of Isabelle's few memories of her. "Why are you leaving Paris? A man like you should stay and fight." "They opened the prison. Apparently it is better to have us fight for France than sit behind bars when the Germans storm through." "You were in prison?" "Does that scare you?" "No. It's just ... unexpected." "You should be scared," he said, pushing the stringy hair out of his eyes. "Anyway, you are safe enough with me. I have other things on my mind. I am going to check on my maman and sister and then find a regiment to join. I'll kill as many of those bastards as I can." "You're lucky," she said with a sigh. Why was it so easy for men in the world to do as they wanted and so difficult for women? "Come with me." Isabelle knew better than to believe him. "You only ask because I'm pretty and you think I'll end up in your bed if I stay," she said. He stared across the fire at her. It cracked and hissed as fat dripped onto the flames. He took a long drink of wine and handed the bottle back to her. Near the flames, their hands touched, the barest brushing of skin on skin. "I could have you in my bed right now if that's what I wanted." "Not willingly," she said, swallowing hard, unable to look away. "Willingly," he said in a way that made her skin prickle and made breathing difficult. "But that's not what I meant. Or what I said. I asked you to come with me to fight." Isabelle felt something so new she couldn't quite grasp it. She knew she was beautiful. It was simply a fact to her. People said it whenever they met her. She saw how men gazed at her with unabashed desire, remarking on her hair or green eyes or plump lips; how they looked at her breasts. She saw her beauty reflected in women's eyes, too, girls at school who didn't want her to stand too near the boys they liked and judged her to be arrogant before she'd even spoken a word. Beauty was just another way to discount her, to not see her. She had grown used to getting attention in other ways. And she wasn't a complete innocent when it came to passion, either. Hadn't the good Sisters of St. Francis expelled her for kissing a boy during mass? But this felt different. He saw her beauty, even in the half-light, she could tell, but he looked past it. Either that, or he was smart enough to see that she wanted to offer more to the world than a pretty face. "I could do something that matters," she said quietly. "Of course you could. I could teach you to use a gun and a knife." "I need to go to Carriveau and make sure my sister is well. Her husband is at the front." He gazed at her across the fire, his expression intent. "We will see your sister in Carriveau and my mother in Poitiers, and then we will be off to join the war." He made it sound like such an adventure, no different from running off to join the circus, as if they would see men who swallowed swords and fat women with beards along the way. It was what she'd been looking for all of her life. "A plan, then," she said, unable to hide her smile. []{#chapter6.xhtml}   [SIX](#contents.xhtml#c_ch6) The next morning Isabelle blinked awake to see sunlight gilding the leaves rustling overhead. She sat up, resmoothing the skirt that had hiked up in her sleep, revealing lacy white garters and ruined silk stockings. "Don't do that on my account." Isabelle glanced to her left and saw Gaëtan coming toward her. For the first time, she saw him clearly. He was lanky, wiry as an apostrophe mark, and dressed in clothes that appeared to have come from a beggar's bin. Beneath a fraying cap, his face was scruffy and sharp, unshaven. He had a wide brow and a pronounced chin and deep-set gray eyes that were heavily lashed. The look in those eyes was as sharp as the point of his chin, and revealed a kind of clarified hunger. Last night she'd thought it was how he'd looked at her. Now she saw that it was how he looked at the world. He didn't scare her, not at all. Isabelle was not like her sister, Vianne, who was given to fear and anxiety. But neither was Isabelle a fool. If she was going to travel with this man, she had better get a few things straight. "So," she said. "Prison." He stared at her, raised a black eyebrow, as if to say, [Scared yet?]{.ePub-I} "A girl like you wouldn't know anything about it. I could tell you it was a Jean Valjean sort of stay and you would think it was romantic." It was the kind of thing she heard all the time. It circled back to her looks, as most snide comments did. Surely a pretty blond girl had to be shallow and dim-witted. "Were you stealing food to feed your family?" He grinned crookedly. It gave him a lopsided look, with one side of his smile hiking up farther than the other. "No." "Are you dangerous?" "It depends. What do you think of communists?" "Ah. So you were a political prisoner." "Something like that. But like I said, a nice girl like you wouldn't know anything about survival." "You'd be surprised the things I know, Gaëtan. There is more than one kind of prison." "Is there, pretty girl? What do you know about it?" "What was your crime?" "I took things that didn't belong to me. Is that enough of an answer?" Thief. "And you got caught." "Obviously." "That isn't exactly comforting, Gaëtan. Were you careless?" "Gaët," he said, moving toward her. "I haven't decided if we're friends yet." He touched her hair, let a few strands coil around his dirty finger. "We're friends. Bank on it. Now let's go." When he reached for her hand, it occurred to her to refuse him, but she didn't. They walked out of the forest and back onto the road, merging once again into the crowd, which opened just enough to let them in and then closed around them. Isabelle hung on to Gaëtan with one hand and held her suitcase in the other. They walked for miles. Automobiles died around them. Cartwheels broke. Horses stopped and couldn't be made to move again. Isabelle felt herself becoming listless and dull, exhausted by heat and dust and thirst. A woman limped along beside her, crying, her tears black with dirt and grit, and then that woman was replaced by an older woman in a fur coat who was sweating profusely and seemed to be wearing every piece of jewelry she owned. The sun grew stronger, became stiflingly, staggeringly hot. Children whined, women whimpered. The acrid, stuffy scent of body odor and sweat filled the air, but Isabelle had grown so used to it that she barely noticed other people's smell or her own. It was almost three o'clock, the hottest part of the day, when they saw a regiment of French soldiers walking alongside them, dragging their rifles. The soldiers moved in a disorganized way, not in formation, not smartly. A tank rumbled beside them, crunching over belongings left in the road; on it several whey-faced French soldiers sat slumped, their heads hung low. Isabelle pulled free of Gaëtan and stumbled through the crowd, elbowing her way to the regiment. "You're going the wrong way!" she screamed, surprised to hear how hoarse her voice was. Gaëtan pounced on a soldier, shoved him back so hard he stumbled and crashed into a slow-moving tank. "Who is fighting for France?" The bleary-eyed soldier shook his head. "No one." In a glint of silver, Isabelle saw the knife Gaëtan held to the man's throat. The soldier's gaze narrowed. "Go ahead. Do it. Kill me." Isabelle pulled Gaëtan away. In his eyes, she saw a rage so deep it scared her. He could do it; he could kill this man by slitting his throat. And she thought: [They opened the prisons.]{.ePub-I} Was he worse than a thief? "Gaët?" she said. Her voice got through to him. He shook his head as if to clear it and lowered his knife. "Who is fighting for us?" he said bitterly, coughing at the dust. "We will be," she said. "Soon." Behind her, an automobile honked its horn. [Aah-ooh-gah]{.ePub-I}. Isabelle ignored it. Automobiles were no better than walking anymore---the few that were still running were moving only at the whim of the people around them; like flotsam in the reeds of a muddy river. "Come on." She pulled him away from the demoralized regiment. They walked on, still holding hands, but as the hours passed, Isabelle noticed a change in Gaëtan. He rarely spoke and didn't smile. At each town, the crowd thinned. People stumbled into Artenay, Saran, and Orléans, their eyes alight with desperation as they reached into handbags and pockets and wallets for money they hoped to be able to spend. Still, Isabelle and Gaëtan kept going. They walked all day and fell into exhausted sleep in the dark and woke again to walk the next day. By their third day, Isabelle was numb with exhaustion. Oozing red blisters had formed between most of her toes and on the balls of her feet and every step was painful. Dehydration gave her a terrible, pounding headache and hunger gnawed at her empty stomach. Dust clogged her throat and eyes and made her cough constantly. She stumbled past a freshly dug grave on the side of the road, marked by a crudely hammered-together wooden cross. Her shoe caught on something---a dead cat---and she staggered forward, almost falling to her knees. Gaëtan steadied her. She clung to his hand, remained stubbornly upright. How much later was it that she heard something? An hour? A day? Bees. They buzzed around her head; she batted them away. She licked her dried lips and thought of pleasant days in the garden, with bees buzzing about. No. Not bees. She knew that sound. She stopped, frowning. Her thoughts were addled. What had she been trying to remember? The droning grew louder, filling the air, and then the aeroplanes appeared, six or seven of them, looking like small crucifixes against the blue and cloudless sky. Isabelle tented a hand over her eyes, watching the aeroplanes fly closer, lower ... Someone yelled, "It's the Boches!" In the distance, a stone bridge exploded in a spray of fire and stone and smoke. The aeroplanes dropped lower over the crowd. Gaëtan threw Isabelle to the ground and covered her body with his. The world became pure sound: the roar of the aeroplane engines, the [rat-ta-ta-tat]{.ePub-I} of machine-gun fire, the beat of her heart, people screaming. Bullets ate up the grass in rows, people screamed and cried out. Isabelle saw a woman fly into the air like a rag doll and hit the ground in a heap. Trees snapped in half and fell over, people yelled. Flames burst into existence. Smoke filled the air. And then ... quiet. Gaëtan rolled off her. "Are you all right?" he asked. She pushed the hair from her eyes and sat up. There were mangled bodies everywhere, and fires, and billowing black smoke. People were screaming, crying, dying. An old man moaned, "Help me." Isabelle crawled to him on her hands and knees, realizing as she got close that the ground was marshy with his blood. A stomach wound gaped through his ripped shirt; entrails bulged out of the torn flesh. "Maybe there's a doctor" was all she could think of to say. And then she heard it again. The droning. "They're coming back." Gaëtan pulled her to her feet. She almost slipped in the blood-soaked grass. Not far away a bomb hit, exploding into fire. Isabelle saw a toddler in soiled nappies standing by a dead woman, crying. She stumbled toward the toddler. Gaëtan yanked her sideways. "I have to help---" "Your dying won't help that kid," he growled, pulling her so hard it hurt. She stumbled along beside him in a daze. They dodged discarded automobiles and bodies, most of which were ripped beyond repair, bleeding, bones sticking out through clothes. At the edge of town, Gaëtan pulled Isabelle into a small stone church. Others were already there, crouching in corners, hiding amid the pews, hugging their loved ones close. Aeroplanes roared overhead, accompanied by the stuttering shriek of machine guns. The stained-glass window shattered; bits of colored glass clattered to the floor, slicing through skin on the way down. Timbers cracked, dust and stones fell. Bullets ran across the church, nailing arms and legs to the floor. The altar exploded. Gaëtan said something to her, and she answered, or she thought she did, but she wasn't sure, and before she could figure it out, another bomb whistled, fell, and the roof over her head exploded. []{#chapter7.xhtml}   [SEVEN](#contents.xhtml#c_ch7) The [école élementaire]{.ePub-I} was not a big school by city standards, but it was spacious and well laid out, plenty large enough for the children of the commune of Carriveau. Before its life as a school, the building had been stables for a rich landowner, and thus its [U]{.ePub-B}-shape design; the central courtyard had been a gathering place for carriages and tradesmen. It boasted gray stone walls, bright blue shutters, and wooden floors. The manor house, to which it had once been aligned, had been bombed in the Great War and never rebuilt. Like so many schools in the small towns in France, it stood on the far edge of town. Vianne was in her classroom, behind her desk, staring out at the shining children's faces in front of her, dabbing her upper lip with her wrinkled handkerchief. On the floor by each child's desk was the obligatory gas mask. Children now carried them everywhere. The open windows and thick stone walls helped to keep the sun at bay, but still the heat was stifling. Lord knew, it was hard enough to concentrate without the added burden of the heat. The news from Paris was terrible, terrifying. All anyone could talk about was the gloomy future and the shocking present: Germans in Paris. The Maginot Line broken. French soldiers dead in trenches and running from the front. For the last three nights---since the telephone call from her father---she hadn't slept. Isabelle was God-knew-where between Paris and Carriveau, and there had been no word from Antoine. "Who wants to conjugate the verb [courir]{.ePub-I} for me?" she asked tiredly. "Shouldn't we be learning German?" Vianne realized what she'd just been asked. The students were interested now, sitting upright, their eyes bright. "Pardon?" she said, clearing her throat, buying time. "We should be learning German, not French." It was young Gilles Fournier, the butcher's son. His father and all three of his older brothers had gone off to the war, leaving only him and his mother to run the family's butcher shop. "And shooting," François agreed, nodding his head. "My maman says we will need to know how to shoot Germans, too." "My grandmère says we should all just leave," said Claire. "She remembers the last war and she says we are fools for staying." "The Germans won't cross the Loire, will they, Madame Mauriac?" In the front row, center, Sophie sat forward in her seat, her hands clasped atop the wooden desk, her eyes wide. She had been as upset by the rumors as Vianne. The child had cried herself to sleep two nights in a row, worrying over her father. Now Bébé came to school with her. Sarah sat in the desk beside her best friend, looking equally fearful. "It is all right to be afraid," Vianne said, moving toward them. It was what she'd said to Sophie last night and to herself, but the words rang hollow. "I'm not afraid," Gilles said. "I got a knife. I'll kill any dirty Boches who show up in Carriveau." Sarah's eyes widened. "They're coming here?" "No," Vianne said. The denial didn't come easily; her own fear caught at the word, stretched it out. "The French soldiers---your fathers and uncles and brothers---are the bravest men in the world. I'm sure they are fighting for Paris and Tours and Orléans even as we speak." "But Paris is overrun," Gilles said. "What happened to the French soldiers at the front?" "In wars, there are battles and skirmishes. Losses along the way. But our men will never let the Germans win. We will never give up." She moved closer to her students. "But we have a part to play, too; those of us left behind. We have to be brave and strong, too, and not believe the worst. We have to keep on with our lives so our fathers and brothers and ... husbands have lives to come home to, [oui]{.ePub-I}?" "But what about Tante Isabelle?" Sophie asked. "Grandpère said she should have been here by now." "My cousin ran from Paris, too," François said. "He is not arrived here, either." "My uncle says it is bad on the roads." The bell rang and students popped from their seats like springs. In an instant the war, the aeroplanes, the fear were forgotten. They were eight- and nine-year-olds freed at the end of a summer school day, and they acted like it. Yelling, laughing, talking all at once, pushing one another aside, running for the door. Vianne was thankful for the bell. She was a teacher, for God's sake. What did she know to say about dangers such as these? How could she assuage a child's fear when her own was straining at the leash? She busied herself with ordinary tasks---gathering up the detritus that sixteen children left behind, banging chalk from the soft erasers, putting books away. When everything was as it should be, she put her papers and pencils into her own leather satchel and took her handbag out of the desk's bottom drawer. Then she put on her straw hat, pinned it in place, and left her classroom. She walked down the quiet hallways, waving to colleagues who were still in their classrooms. Several of the rooms were closed up now that the male teachers had been mobilized. At Rachel's classroom, she paused, watching as Rachel put her son in his pram and wheeled it toward the door. Rachel had been planning to take this term off from teaching to stay home with Ari, but the war had changed all of that. Now, she had no choice but to bring her baby to work with her. "You look like I feel," Vianne said as her friend neared. Rachel's dark hair had responded to the humidity and doubled in size. "That can't be a compliment but I'm desperate, so I am taking it as one. You have chalk on your cheek, by the way." Vianne wiped her cheek absently and leaned over the pram. The baby was sleeping soundly. "How's he doing?" "For a ten-month-old who is supposed to be at home with his maman and is instead gallivanting around town beneath enemy aeroplanes and listening to ten-year-old students shriek all day? Fine." She smiled and pushed a damp ringlet from her face as they headed down the corridor. "Do I sound bitter?" "No more than the rest of us." "Ha! Bitterness would do you good. All that smiling and pretending of yours would give me hives." Rachel bumped the pram down the three stone steps and onto the walkway that led to the grassy play area that had once been an exercise arena for horses and a delivery area for tradesmen. A four-hundred-year-old stone fountain gurgled and dripped water in the center of the yard. "Come on, girls!" Rachel called out to Sophie and Sarah, who were sitting together on a park bench. The girls responded immediately and fell into step ahead of the women, chattering constantly, their heads cocked together, their hands clasped. A second generation of best friends. They turned into an alleyway and came out on rue Victor Hugo, right in front of a bistro where old men sat on ironwork chairs, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes and talking politics. Ahead of them, Vianne saw a haggard trio of women limping along, their clothes tattered, their faces yellow with dust. "Poor women," Rachel said with a sigh. "Hélène Ruelle told me this morning that at least a dozen refugees came to town late last night. The stories they bring are not good. But no one embellishes a story like Hélène." Ordinarily Vianne would make a comment about what a gossip Hélène was, but she couldn't be glib. According to Papa, Isabelle had left Paris days ago. She still hadn't arrived at Le Jardin. "I'm worried about Isabelle," she said. Rachel linked her arm through Vianne's. "Do you remember the first time your sister ran away from that boarding school in Lyon?" "She was seven years old." "She made it all the way to Amboise. Alone. With no money. She spent two nights in the woods and talked her way onto the train." Vianne barely remembered anything of that time except for her own grief. When she'd lost the first baby, she'd fallen into despair. The lost year, Antoine called it. That was how she thought of it, too. When Antoine told her he was taking Isabelle to Paris, and to Papa, Vianne had been---God help her---relieved. Was it any surprise that Isabelle had run away from the boarding school to which she'd been sent? To this day, Vianne felt an abiding shame at how she had treated her baby sister. "She was nine the first time she made it to Paris," Vianne said, trying to find comfort in the familiar story. Isabelle was tough and driven and determined; she always had been. "If I'm not mistaken, she was expelled two years later for running away from school to see a traveling circus. Or was that when she climbed out of the second-floor dormitory window using a bedsheet?" Rachel smiled. "The point is, Isabelle will make it here if that's what she wants." "God help anyone who tries to stop her." "She will arrive any day. I promise. Unless she has met an exiled prince and fallen desperately in love." "That is the kind of thing that could happen to her." "You see?" Rachel teased. "You feel better already. Now come to my house for lemonade. It's just the thing on a day this hot." \*   \*   \* After supper, Vianne got Sophie settled into bed and went downstairs. She was too worried to relax. The silence in her house kept reminding her that no one had come to her door. She could not remain still. Regardless of her conversation with Rachel, she couldn't dispel her worry---and a terrible sense of foreboding---about Isabelle. Vianne stood up, sat down, then stood again and walked to the front door, opening it. Outside, the fields lay beneath a purple and pink evening sky. Her yard was a series of familiar shapes---well-tended apple trees stood protectively between the front door and the rose-and-vine-covered stone wall, beyond which lay the road to town and acres and acres of fields, studded here and there with thickets of narrow-trunked trees. Off to the right was the deeper woods where she and Antoine had often sneaked off to be alone when they were younger. Antoine. Isabelle. Where were they? Was he at the front? Was she walking from Paris? [Don't think about it.]{.ePub-I} She needed to do something. Gardening. Keep her mind on something else. After retrieving her worn gardening gloves and stepping into the boots by the door, she made her way to the garden positioned on a flat patch of land between the shed and the barn. Potatoes, onions, carrots, broccoli, peas, beans, cucumbers, tomatoes, and radishes grew in its carefully tended beds. On the hillside between the garden and the barn were the berries---raspberries and blackberries in carefully contained rows. She knelt down in the rich, black dirt and began pulling weeds. Early summer was usually a time of promise. Certainly, things could go wrong in this most ardent season, but if one remained steady and calm and didn't shirk the all-important duties of weeding and thinning, the plants could be guided and tamed. Vianne always made sure that the beds were precisely organized and tended with a firm yet gentle hand. Even more important than what she gave her garden was what it gave her. In it, she found a sense of calm. She became aware of something wrong slowly, in pieces. First, there was a sound that didn't belong, a vibration, a thudding, and then a murmur. The odors came next: something wholly at odds with her sweet garden smell, something acrid and sharp that made her think of decay. Vianne wiped her forehead, aware that she was smearing black dirt across her skin, and stood up. Tucking her dirty gloves in the gaping hip pockets of her pants, she rose to her feet and moved toward her gate. Before she reached it, a trio of women appeared, as if sculpted out of the shadows. They stood clumped together in the road just behind her gate. An old woman, dressed in rags, held the others close to her---a young woman with a babe-in-arms and a teenaged girl who held an empty birdcage in one hand and a shovel