L’Isle sur la Sorgue, France, 1943
At night that summer the sounds of the piano, especially the low notes, rang out, sonorous, in the dark. Maddie’s grandmother had set an old brass candelabra on the baby grand so they could see the music, and usually her grandfather sat outside on the front porch, to make sure no one came up the long front drive while they played. Maddie was learning to recognize certain pieces: a Mozart sonata, a Chopin nocturne. The word “nocturne” sounded just like the music did — deep and lonely. Daniel was better at the piano than she was, but his fingers were longer, because he was eleven, and he’d been studying with Maddie’s grandmother for three years, while Maddie had just started. She was eight, so her grandmother said she was old enough to take the lessons seriously. Her grandmother was pleased to have a pupil as talented as Daniel, and she asked him to play for them most evenings, while she shut her eyes and leaned back in her chair. The thrumming of the instrument and the scent of night-blooming jasmine — that was what Maddie would remember, the rest of her life.
Her mother had insisted that Maddie be good and obey her grandparents while she was away, so Maddie made the beds every morning and dried the supper dishes with the worn yellow and white checked dishcloths every night. Maman had said this new kind of life in the war would last just a...
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