Chapter Nine
NINE
Vianne closed the bedroom door and leaned against it, trying to calm her nerves.
She could hear Isabelle pacing in the room behind her, moving with an anger that made the floorboards tremble.
How long did Vianne stand there alone, trembling, trying to get her nerves under control?
It felt like hours passed while she struggled with her fear.
In ordinary times, she would have found the strength to talk rationally with her sister, to say some of the things that had long been unspoken. Vianne would have told Isabelle how sorry she was for the way she’d treated her as a little girl. Maybe she could have made Isabelle understand.
Vianne had been so helpless after Maman’s death. When Papa had sent them away, to live in this small town, beneath the cold, stern eyes of a woman who had shown the girls no love, Vianne had … wilted.
In another time, she might have shared with Isabelle what they had in common, how undone she’d been by Maman’s death, how Papa’s rejection had broken her heart.
Or how he treated her at sixteen when she’d come to him, pregnant and in love …
and been slapped across the face and called a disgrace.
How Antoine had pushed Papa back, hard, and said, I’m going to marry her.
And Papa’s answer: Fine, she’s all yours. You can have the house. But you’ll take her squalling sister, too.
Vianne closed her eyes. She hated to think about all of that; for years, she’d practically forgotten it. Now, how could she push it aside? She had done to Isabelle exactly what their father had done to them. It was the greatest regret of Vianne’s life.
But this was not the time to repair that damage.
Now she had to do everything in her power to keep Sophie safe until Antoine came home. Isabelle would simply have to be made to understand that.
With a sigh, she went downstairs to check on supper.
In the kitchen, she found her potato soup simmering a bit too briskly, so she uncovered it and lowered the heat.
“Madame? Are you sanguine?”
She flinched at the sound of his voice. When had he come in here? She took a deep breath and patted her hair. It was not the word he meant. Really, his French was terrible.
“That smells delicious,” he said, coming up behind her.
She set the wooden spoon down on the rest beside the stove.
“May I see what you are making?”
“Of course,” she said, both of them pretending her wishes mattered. “It’s just potato soup.”
“My wife, alas, is not much of a cook.”
He was right beside her now, taking Antoine’s place, a hungry man peering down at a cooking dinner.
“You are married,” she said, reassured by it, although she couldn’t say why.
“And a baby soon to be born. We are planning to call him Wilhelm, although I will not be there when he is born, and of course, such decisions must inevitably be his mother’s.”
It was such a … human thing to say. She found herself turning slightly to look at him. He was her height, almost exactly, and it unnerved her; looking directly into his eyes made her feel vulnerable.
“God willing, we will all be home soon,” he said.
He wants this over, too, she thought with relief.
“It’s suppertime, Herr Captain. Will you be joining us?”
“It would be an honor, Madame. Although you will be pleased to hear that most evenings I will be working late and enjoying my supper with the officers. I shall also often be out on campaigns. You shall sometimes hardly notice my presence.”
Vianne left him in the kitchen and carried silverware into the dining room, where she almost ran into Isabelle.
“You shouldn’t be alone with him,” Isabelle hissed.
The captain came into the room. “You cannot think I would accept your hospitality and then do harm? Consider this night. I have brought you wine. A lovely Sancerre.”
“You brought us wine,” Isabelle said.
“As any good guest would,” he answered.
Vianne thought, oh, no, but there was nothing she could do to stop Isabelle from speaking.
“You know about Tours, Herr Captain?” Isabelle asked. “How your Stukas fired on innocent women and children who were fleeing for their lives and dropped bombs on us?”
“Us?” he said, his expression turning thoughtful.
“I was there. You see the marks on my face.”
“Ah,” he said. “That must have been most unpleasant.”
Isabelle went very still. The green of her eyes seemed to blaze against the red marks and bruises on her pale skin. “Unpleasant.”
“Think about Sophie,” Vianne reminded her evenly.
Isabelle gritted her teeth and then turned it into a fake smile. “Here, Captain Beck, let me show you to your seat.”
Vianne took her first decent breath in at least an hour. Then, slowly, she headed into the kitchen to dish up supper.
* * *
Vianne served supper in silence. The atmosphere at the table was as heavy as coal soot, settling on all of them. It frayed Vianne’s nerves to the breaking point. Outside, the sun began to set; pink light filled the windows.
“Would you care for wine, Mademoiselle?” Beck said to Isabelle, pouring himself a large glass of the Sancerre he had brought to the table.
“If ordinary French families can’t afford to drink it, Herr Captain, how can I enjoy it?”
“A sip perhaps would not be—”
Isabelle finished her soup and got to her feet. “Excuse me. I am feeling sick to my stomach.”
“Me, too,” Sophie said. She got to her feet and followed her aunt out of the room like a puppy follows the lead dog, with her head down.
Vianne sat perfectly still, her soup spoon held above her bowl. They were leaving her alone with him.
Her breathing was a flutter in her chest. She carefully set down her spoon and dabbed at her mouth with her serviette. “Forgive my sister, Herr Captain. She is impetuous and willful.”
“My oldest daughter is such a girl. We expect nothing but trouble when she gets a little older.”
That surprised Vianne so much that she turned. “You have a daughter?”
“Gisela,” he said, his mouth curving into a smile. “She is six and already her mother is unable to get her to reliably do the simplest of tasks—like brush her teeth. Our Gisela would rather build a fort than read a book.” He sighed, smiling.
It flustered her, knowing this about him. She tried to think of a response, but her nerves were too overwrought. She picked up her spoon and began eating again.
The meal seemed to go on forever, in a silence that was her undoing. The moment he finished, saying, “A lovely meal. My thanks,” she got to her feet and began clearing the table.
Thankfully, he didn’t follow her into the kitchen. He remained in the dining room, at the table by himself, drinking the wine he’d brought, which she knew would have tasted of autumn—pears and apples.
By the time she’d washed and dried the dishes, and put them away, night had fallen. She left the house, stepping into the starlit front yard for a moment’s peace. On the stone garden wall, a shadow moved; it was a cat perhaps.
Behind her, she heard a footfall, then a match strike and the smell of sulfur.
She took a quiet step backward, wanting to melt into the shadows. If she could move quietly enough, perhaps she could return by the side door without alerting him to her presence. She stepped on a twig, heard it snap beneath her heel, and she froze.
He stepped out from the orchard.
“Madame,” he said. “So you love the starlight also. I am sorry to intrude upon you.”
She was afraid to move.
He closed the distance between them, taking up a place beside her as if he belonged there, looking out across her orchard.
“You would never know there is a war on out here,” he said.
Vianne thought he sounded sad and it reminded her that they were alike in a way, both of them far away from the people they loved. “Your … superior … he said that all prisoners of war will remain in Germany. What does this mean? What of our soldiers? Surely you did not capture all of them.”
“I do not know, Madame. Some will return. Many will not.”
“Well. Isn’t this a lovely little moment between new friends,” Isabelle said.
Vianne flinched, horrified that she had been caught standing out here with a German, the enemy, a man.
Isabelle stood in the moonlight, wearing a caramel-colored suit; she held her valise in one hand and Vianne’s best Deauville in the other.
“You have my hat,” Vianne said.
“I may have to wait for a train. My face is still tender from the Nazi attack.” She was smiling at Beck as she said this. It wasn’t really a smile.
Beck inclined his head in a curt nod. “You have sisterly things to discuss, obviously. I will take my leave.” With a brisk, polite nod, he returned to the house, closing the door behind him.
“I can’t stay here,” Isabelle said.
“Of course you can.”
“I have no interest in making friends with the enemy, V.”
“Damn it, Isabelle. Don’t you dare—”
Isabelle stepped closer. “I’ll put you and Sophie at risk. Sooner or later. You know I will. You told me I needed to protect Sophie. This is the only way I can do it. I feel like I’ll explode if I stay, V.”
Vianne’s anger dissolved; without it, she felt inexpressibly tired.
This essential difference had always been between them.
Vianne the rule follower and Isabelle the rebel.
Even in girlhood, in grief, they had expressed their emotions differently.
Vianne had gone silent after Maman’s death, tried to pretend that Papa’s abandonment didn’t wound her, while Isabelle had thrown tantrums and run away and demanded attention.
Maman had sworn that one day they would be the best of friends.
Never had this prediction seemed less likely.
In this, right now, Isabelle was right. Vianne would be constantly afraid of what her sister would say or do around the captain, and truthfully, Vianne hadn’t the strength for it.
“How will you go? And where?”
“Train. To Paris. I’ll telegram you when I arrive safely.”
“Be careful. Don’t do anything foolish.”
“Me? You know better than that.”
Vianne pulled Isabelle into a fierce embrace and then let her go.
* * *