It happens that a story creeps into your depths, shaking you violently and challenging you to turn away from it. This is exactly what happened to me with the story of the Nightingale. The truth is that I did everything in my power not to write this novel, but my research into the subject of World War II led me to the story of the young woman who made an escape route from occupied France, and I could not escape from it. Thus, her story became the starting point, and in reality it is a story of heroism, risk, and unbridled courage. I could not distract myself from her; I kept digging, exploring, and reading, until this story led me to other stories that were no less amazing. It was impossible for me to ignore those stories. Thus, I found myself under the weight of one question haunting me, a question that remains as valid today as it was seventy years ago: Under what circumstances would I risk my life as a wife and mother? More importantly, under what circumstances would I risk my child's life to save a stranger? This question occupies a major position in the novel The Nightingale. In love, we discover who we want to be; In war, we discover who we are. Perhaps sometimes we do not want to know what we can do to survive our lives. In war, women's stories have always been ignored and forgotten. Women usually return home from the battlefields, say nothing, and then move on with their lives. The Nightingale is a novel about these women, and the bold choices they made to save their children and maintain the lifestyle they had become accustomed to. Kristen Hannah
Adam rubs his old rust with the blade of a knife. He scratches the space with tremendous instinctive force. After a period of time has passed since the absence of a second person, the open space has become grayer, and different from what Adam imagined. Here he walks alone, but the old noise still haunts him. A mythical being lives under his skin, making him rub his hands and rub them. His eyelids, he wants to see the light hitting the body of the night with the blade of the knife, and the knife does not seem bold when faced with the thickness of the bohemian bellows that strikes it.
Adam declares, the wires extending from under the neck to the edge of the shoulder are swollen, his face appears congested with blood and the red color invades his place. Adam is now thinking about the crow that hovers around his head, crowing with a sound like the horn of an old freight vehicle. He had previously been told that seeing a crow in the belly of the sky is an omen. It was ominous, so his senses trembled and he turned to the notebooks of the past, and questions abounded in his head.
