The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah

that man anymore. He had lost too much, and in his loss, he’d thrown more away. This was the only
way he knew to tell her he loved her. “Not this way,” she whispered.
“There is no other. Forgive me,” he said softly.
The Gestapo stepped between them. He grabbed her father by the arm and pulled him toward the
door.
Isabelle limped after them. “I am the Nightingale!” she called out.
The door slammed in her face. She hobbled to the cell’s window, clutching the rough, rusty bars. “I
am the Nightingale!” she screamed.
Outside, beneath a yellow morning sun, her father was dragged into the square, where a firing squad
stood at the ready, rifles raised.
Her father stumbled forward, lurched across the cobblestoned square, past a fountain. Morning
sunlight gave everything a golden, beautiful glow.
“We were supposed to have time,” she whispered, feeling tears start. How often had she imagined a
new beginning for her and Papa, for all of them? They would come together after the war, Isabelle and
Vianne and Papa, learn to laugh and talk and be a family again.
Now it would never happen; she would never get to know her father, never feel the warmth of his
hand in hers, never fall asleep on the divan beside him, never be able to say all that needed to be said
between them. Those words were lost, turned into ghosts that would drift away, unsaid. They would
never be the family maman had promised. “Papa,” she said; it was such a big word suddenly, a dream in
its entirety.
He turned and faced the firing squad. She watched him stand taller and square his shoulders. He
pushed the white strands of hair from his dry eyes. Across the square, their gazes met. She clutched the
bars harder, clinging to them for support.
“I love you,” he mouthed.
Shots rang out.
* * *
Vianne hurt all over.
She lay in bed, bracketed by her sleeping children, trying not to remember last night’s rape in
excruciating detail.
Moving slowly, she went to the pump and washed up in cold water, wincing every time she touched
an area that was bruised.
She dressed in what was easy—a wrinkled linen button-up dress with a fitted bodice and flared skirt.
All night, she’d lain awake in bed, holding her children close, alternately weeping for what he’d
done to her—what he’d taken from her—and fuming that she couldn’t stop it.
She wanted to kill him.
She wanted to kill herself.
What would Antoine think of her now?