The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah

pasty and gaunt. Her dull, reddish gold hair hung limp on either side of her face. In the years of
deprivation, her nose seemed to have lengthened and her cheekbones had become more prominent. A
bruise discolored her temple. Soon, she knew, it would darken. She knew without looking that there
would be handprints on her upper arms and an ugly bruise on her left breast.
He was getting meaner. Angrier. The Allied forces had landed in southern France and begun
liberating towns. The Germans were losing the war, and Von Richter seemed hell-bent on making
Vianne pay for it.
She stripped and washed in tepid water. She scrubbed until her skin was mottled and red, and still
she didn’t feel clean. She never felt clean.
When she could stand no more, she dried off and redressed in her nightgown, adding a robe over it.
Tying it at the waist, she left the bathroom, carrying her candle.
Sophie was in the living room, waiting for her. She sat on the last good piece of furniture in the
room—the divan—with her knees drawn together and her hands clasped. The rest of the furniture had
been requisitioned or burned.
“What are you doing up so late?”
“I could ask you the same question, but I don’t really need to, do I?”
Vianne tightened the belt on her robe. It was a nervous habit, something to do with her hands. “Let’s
go to bed.”
Sophie looked up at her. At almost fourteen, Sophie’s face had begun to mature. Her eyes were
black against her pale skin, her lashes lush and long. A poor diet had thinned Sophie’s hair, but it still
hung in ringlets. She pursed her full lips. “Really, Maman? How long must we pretend?” The sadness—
and the anger—in those beautiful eyes was heartbreaking. Vianne apparently had hidden nothing from
this child who’d lost her childhood to war.
What was the right thing for a mother to say to her nearly grown daughter about the ugliness in the
world? How could she be honest? How could Vianne expect her daughter to judge her less harshly than
she judged herself?
Vianne sat down beside Sophie. She thought about their old life—laughter, kisses, family suppers,
Christmas mornings, lost baby teeth, first words.
“I’m not stupid,” Sophie said.
“I have never thought you were. Not for a moment.” She drew in a breath and let it out. “I only
wanted to protect you.”
“From the truth?”
“From everything.”
“There’s no such thing,” Sophie said bitterly. “Don’t you know that by now? Rachel is gone. Sarah
is dead. Grandpère is dead. Tante Isabelle is…” Tears filled her eyes. “And Papa … when did we last
hear from him? A year? Eight months? He’s probably dead, too.”
“Your father is alive. So is your aunt. I’d feel it if they were gone.” She put a hand over her heart.
“I’d know it here.”