The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah

And so she knew what she needed to do.
She knew it, and still when she came to the gate at Rachel’s cottage, she found herself unable to
move. Her feet felt heavy, her heart even more so.
She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. There was a shuffling of feet within and then the
door opened. Rachel held her sleeping son in one arm and had a pair of dungarees slung over the other.
“Vianne,” she said, smiling. “Come in.”
Vianne almost gave in to cowardice. Oh, Rachel, I just stopped by to say hello. Instead, she took a
deep breath and followed her friend into the house. She took her usual place in the comfortable
upholstered chair tucked in close to the blazing fire.
“Take Ari, I’ll make us coffee.”
Vianne reached for the sleeping baby and took him in her arms. He snuggled close and she stroked
his back and kissed the back of his head.
“We heard that some care packages were being delivered to prisoner of war camps by the Red
Cross,” Rachel said a moment later, coming into the room carrying two cups of coffee. She set one
down on the table next to Vianne. “Where are the girls?”
“At my house, with Isabelle. Probably learning how to shoot a gun.”
Rachel laughed. “There are worse skills to have.” She pulled the dungarees from her shoulder and
tossed them onto a straw basket with the rest of her sewing. Then she sat down across from Vianne.
Vianne breathed in deeply of the sweet scent that was pure baby. When she looked up, Rachel was
staring at her.
“Is it one of those days?” she asked quietly.
Vianne gave an unsteady smile. Rachel knew how much Vianne sometimes mourned her lost babies
and how deeply she’d prayed for more children. It had been difficult between them—not a lot, but a
little—when Rachel had gotten pregnant with Ari. There was joy for Rachel … and a thread of envy.
“No,” she said. She lifted her chin slowly, looked her best friend in the eyes. “I have something to tell
you.”
“What?”
Vianne drew in a breath. “Do you remember the day we wrote the postcards? And Captain Beck was
waiting for me when we got home?”
“Oui. I offered to come in with you.”
“I wish you had, although I don’t suppose it would have made a difference. He just would have
waited until you left.”
Rachel started to rise. “Did he—”
“No, no,” she said quickly. “Not that. He was working at the dining room table that day, writing
something when I returned. He … asked me for a list of names. He wanted to know which of the
teachers at the school were Jewish or communists.” She paused. “He asked about homosexuals and
Freemasons, too, as if people talk about such things.”
“You told him you didn’t know.”