The Girl You Left Behind

  I went through the day as if in a dream. I prepared breakfast for the children while Helene went to the market, and watched as Aurelien, who was in one of his moods, took Edith to school. I opened the doors at ten o'clock and served the few people who came in at that time. Old Rene was laughing about some German military vehicle that had gone into a ditch down by the barracks, and could not be pulled out. This mishap caused merriment in the bar for a while. I smiled vaguely, and nodded that, yes, indeed, that would show them, yes, that was indeed fine German steering. I saw and heard it all as if from the inside of a bubble.

  At lunchtime Aurelien and Edith came in for a piece of bread and a small knob of cheese, and while they sat in the kitchen we received a notice from the mayor, requesting blankets and several sets of cutlery to go to a new billet a mile down the road. There was much grumbling as our customers observed the piece of paper and recalled that they, too, would return home to similar notices. Some small part of me was glad to be seen as part of the requisitioning.

  At three o'clock we paused to watch a German medical convoy pass, the line of vehicles and horses making our road vibrate. The bar was silent for some minutes afterwards. At four o'clock the mayor's wife came in and thanked everyone for their kind letters and thoughts, and we asked her to stay for a cup of coffee but she refused. She was not good company, she said apologetically. She made her way unsteadily back across the square, her husband supporting her by the elbow.

  At half past four the last customers left for the day, and I knew, with dusk falling, that there would be no more, even though we were open for another half-hour. I walked along the dining-room windows, pulling down each blind so that our interior was again obscured. In the kitchen Helene was checking spellings with Edith, and occasionally breaking off to sing songs with Mimi and Jean. Edith had taken a fancy to little Jean, and Helene had remarked several times what a help the little girl was, playing with him so much. Helene had never once questioned my decision to bring her into our home; it would not have occurred to her to turn a child away, even though it meant less food for each of us.

  When I went upstairs, I pulled down my journal from the rafters. I made as if to write, then realized I had nothing to say. Nothing that would not incriminate me. I tucked the journal back into its hiding place, and wondered whether I would ever have anything to say to my husband again.

  The Germans came, without the Kommandant, and we fed them. They were subdued; I found myself hoping, as I often did, that this meant some terrible news on their side. Helene kept glancing at me as we worked; I could see her trying to decide what I was going to do. I served, poured wine, washed up, and accepted with a curt nod the thanks of those men who congratulated us on the meal. Then, as the last of them left, I scooped up Edith, who was asleep on the stairs again, and took her to my room. I laid her in the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. I gazed at her for a moment, gently moving a strand of hair away from her cheek. She stirred, her face troubled even in sleep.

  I watched to make sure she wouldn't wake. Then I brushed my hair and pinned it, my movements slow and considered. As I stared at my reflection in the candlelight, something caught my eye. I turned and picked up a note that had been pushed under the door. I stared at the words, at Helene's handwriting.

  Once it is done, it cannot be undone.

  And then I thought of the dead boy prisoner in his oversized shoes, the raggle-taggle men who had made their way up the road even that afternoon. And it was suddenly very simple: there was no choice.

  I placed the note in my hiding place, then made my way silently down the stairs. At the bottom, I gazed at the portrait on the wall, then lifted it carefully from its hook and wrapped it in a shawl, so that none of it was exposed. I covered myself with another two shawls and stepped out into the dark. As I closed the door behind me, I heard my sister whisper from upstairs, her voice a warning bell.

  Sophie.

  9

  After so many months spent inside under curfew it felt strange to be walking in the dark. The icy streets of the little town were deserted, the windows blank, the curtains unmoving. I walked along briskly in the shadows, a shawl pulled high over my head in the hope that even if someone happened to look out they would see only an unidentifiable shape hurrying through the backstreets.

  It was bitterly cold, but I barely felt it. I was numb. As I made the fifteen-minute journey to the outskirts of town, to the Fourrier farm where the Germans had billeted themselves almost a year earlier, I lost the ability to think. I became a thing, walking. I was afraid that if I let myself think about where I was going, I would not be able to make my legs move, one foot placing itself in front of the other. If I thought, I would hear my sister's warnings, the unforgiving voices of the other townspeople if it were to emerge that I had been seen visiting Herr Kommandant under cover of night. I might hear my own fear.

  Instead I muttered my husband's name like a mantra: Edouard. I will free Edouard. I can do this. I held the painting tight under my arm.

  I had reached the outskirts of the town. I turned left where the dirt road became rough and rutted, the lane's already pocked surface further destroyed by the military vehicles that passed up and down. My father's old horse had broken a leg in one of these ruts the previous year: he had been ridden too hard by some German who hadn't been looking where he was going. Aurelien had wept when he heard the news. Just another blameless casualty of the occupation. These days, nobody wept for horses.

  I will bring Edouard home.

  The moon disappeared behind a cloud and I stumbled down the farm track, my feet several times disappearing into ruts of icy water so that my shoes and stockings were drenched and my cold fingers tightened round the painting for fear that I would drop it. I could just make out the distant lights within the house, and I kept walking towards them. Dim shapes moved ahead of me on the verges, rabbits perhaps, and the outline of a fox crept across the road, pausing briefly to stare at me, insolent and unafraid. Moments later I heard the terrified squeal of a rabbit and had to force down the bile it brought to my throat.

  The farm loomed ahead now, its lights blazing. I heard the rumble of a truck and my breath quickened. I leaped backwards into a hedge, ducking out of the beam of the headlights as a military vehicle bounced and whined its way past. In the rear, under a flap of canvas, I could just make out the faces of women, seated beside each other. I stared as they disappeared, then pulled myself out of the hedge, my shawls catching on the twigs. There were rumours that the Germans brought in girls from outside the town; until now I had believed them to be just that. I thought of Liliane again and offered up a silent prayer.

  I was at the entrance to the farm. A hundred feet ahead of me I saw the truck stop, the shadowy forms of women walking in silence to a door on the left, as if this were a route they had taken many times before. I heard men's voices, the distant sound of singing.

  'Halt.'

  The soldier stepped out in front of me. I jumped. He lifted his rifle, then peered more closely. He gestured towards the other women.

  'No ... no. I am here to see Herr Kommandant.'

  He gestured again, impatiently.

  'Nein,' I said, louder. 'Herr Kommandant. I have ... an appointment.'

  'Herr Kommandant?'

  I could not see his face. But the silhouette appeared to study me, then strode across the yard to where I could just make out a door. He rapped on it, and I heard a muttered conversation. I waited, my heart thumping, my skin prickling with anxiety.

  'Wie heist?' he said, when he returned.

  'I am Madame Lefevre,' I whispered.

  He gestured to my shawl, which I pulled briefly from my head, exposing my face. He waved towards a door across the courtyard. 'Diese Tur. Obergeschosse. Grune Tur auf der rechten Seite.'

  'What?' I said. 'I don't understand.'

  He grew impatient again. 'Da, da.' He gestured, taking my elbow and propelling me forwards roughly. I was shocked that he would treat a visitor to the Komm
andant in such a way. And then it dawned on me: my protestations that I was married were meaningless. I was simply another woman, calling on Germans after dark. I was glad that he could not see the colour that sprang to my cheeks. I wrenched my elbow from his grasp and walked stiffly towards the small building on the right.

  It was not hard to see which room was his: light crept from under only one door. I hesitated outside, then knocked and said quietly, 'Herr Kommandant?'

  The sound of footsteps, the door opened, and I took a small step back. He was out of his uniform, dressed in a striped, collarless shirt and braces, a book dangling from one hand, as if I had interrupted him. He looked at me, half smiled, as if in greeting, and stepped back to allow me in.

  The room was large, thick with beams, and its floorboards covered with rugs, several of which I thought I recognized from the homes of my neighbours. There was a small table and chairs, a military chest, its brass corners glowing in the light of two acetylene lamps, a coat hook, from which hung his uniform, and a large easy chair by a generously stacked fire. Its warmth was evident even from the other side of the room. In the corner was a bed, with two thick quilts. I glanced at it and looked away.

  'Here.' He was standing behind me, lifting the shawls from my back. 'Let me take these.'

  I allowed him to remove them and hang them on the coat hook, still clutching the painting to my chest. Even as I stood almost paralysed, I felt ashamed of my shabby clothing. We could not wash clothes often in this cold: wool took weeks to dry, or simply froze into rigid shapes outside.

  'It's bitter out,' he observed. 'I can feel it on your clothes.'

  'Yes.' My voice, when it emerged, sounded unlike my own.

  'This is a hard winter. And I think we have some months of it to come yet. Would you like a drink?' He moved to a small table, and poured two glasses of wine from a carafe. I took one from him wordlessly. I was still shivering from my walk.

  'You can put the package down,' he said.

  I had forgotten I was holding it. I lowered it to the floor, still standing.

  'Please,' he said. 'Please sit.' He seemed almost irritated when I hesitated, as if my nervousness were an insult.

  I sat on one of the wooden chairs, one hand resting against the frame of the painting. I don't know why I found it a comfort.

  'I did not come to eat at the hotel tonight. I thought about what you said, that you are already considered a traitor for our presence in your home.'

  I took a sip of my wine.

  'I do not wish to cause you more problems, Sophie ... more than we already cause you by our occupation.'

  I didn't know what to say to this. I took another sip. His eyes kept darting to mine, as if he were waiting for some response.

  From across the courtyard we could hear singing. I wondered whether the girls were with the men, then who they were, which villages they had come from. Would they, too, be paraded through the streets as criminals afterwards for what they had done? Did they know the fate of Liliane Bethune?

  'Are you hungry?' He gestured towards a small tray of bread and cheese. I shook my head. I had had no appetite all day.

  'It's not quite up to the normal standards of your cooking, I admit. I was thinking the other day of that duck dish you made last month. With the orange. Perhaps you would do that for us again.' He kept talking. 'But our supplies are dwindling. I found myself dreaming of a Christmas cake called Stollen. Do you have it in France?'

  I shook my head again.

  We sat on each side of the fire. I felt electrified, as if each part of me were fizzing, transparent. I felt as if he could see through my skin. He knew everything. He held everything. I listened to the distant voices, and every now and then my presence there hit me. I am alone with a Kommandant, in the German barracks. In a room with a bed.

  'Did you think about what I said?' I blurted out.

  He stared at me for a minute. 'You would not allow us the pleasure of a small conversation?'

  I swallowed. 'I'm sorry. But I must know.'

  He took a sip of wine. 'I have thought of little else.'

  'Then ...' My breath stalled in my chest. I leaned over, put my glass down and unwrapped the painting. I placed it against the chair, lit by the fire, so that he could see it in its finest aspect. 'Will you take it? Will you take it in exchange for my husband's freedom?'

  The air in the room grew still. He didn't look at the picture. His eyes stayed on mine, unblinking, unreadable.

  'If I could convey to you what this painting means to me ... if you knew how it had kept me going in the darkest of days ... you would know I could not offer it lightly. But I ... would not mind the painting going to you, Herr Kommandant.'

  'Friedrich. Call me Friedrich.'

  'Friedrich. I ... have long known that you understood my husband's work. You understand beauty. You understand what an artist puts of himself into a piece of work, and why it is a thing of infinite value. So while it will break my heart to lose it, I give it willingly. To you.'

  He was still staring at me. I did not look away. Everything depended on this moment. I saw an old scar running several inches from his left ear down his neck, a lightly silvered ridge. I saw that his bright blue eyes were rimmed with black, as if someone had drawn around each iris for emphasis.

  'It was never about the painting, Sophie.'

  And there it was: confirmation of my fate.

  I closed my eyes briefly and let myself absorb this knowledge.

  The Kommandant began to talk about art. He spoke of an art teacher he had known as a young man, a teacher who had opened his eyes to work far from the classicism of his upbringing. He spoke of how he had tried to explain this rougher, more elemental way of painting to his father, and his disappointment at the older man's incomprehension. 'He told me it looked "unfinished",' he said sadly. 'He believed that veering from the traditional was an act of rebellion in itself. I think my wife is much the same.'

  I barely heard him. I lifted my glass and took a long draught. 'May I have some more?' I said. I emptied it, then asked for it to be refilled again. I have never drunk like that, before or since. I didn't care if I appeared rude. The Kommandant continued to talk, his voice a low monotone. He didn't ask anything of me in return: it was as if he wanted me only to listen. He wanted me to know that there was someone else behind the uniform and the peaked cap. But I barely heard him. I wished to blur the world around me, for this decision not to be mine.

  'Do you think we would have been friends, if we had met in other circumstances? I like to think we would.'

  I tried to forget that I was there, in that room, with a German's eyes upon me. I wanted to be a thing, unfeeling, unknowing.

  'Perhaps.'

  'Will you dance with me, Sophie?'

  The way he kept saying my name, as if he were entitled to.

  I put down my glass and stood, my arms useless at my sides as he walked over to the gramophone and put on a slow waltz. He moved towards me and hesitated just a minute before putting his arms around me. As the music crackled into life, we began to dance. I moved slowly around the room, my hand in his, my fingers light against the soft cotton of his shirt. I danced, my mind blank, vaguely conscious of his head as it came to rest against mine. I smelt soap and tobacco, felt his trousers brush against my skirt. He held me, not pulling me to him, but carefully, as one might hold something fragile. I closed my eyes, allowing myself to sink into a haze, trying to train my mind to follow the music, to put myself somewhere else. Several times I tried to imagine he was Edouard, but my mind wouldn't let me. Everything about this man was too different: his feel, his size against mine, the scent of his skin.

  'Sometimes,' he said softly, 'it seems there is so little beauty left in this world. So little joy. You think life is harsh in your little town. But if you saw what we see outside it ... Nobody wins. Nobody wins in a war like this.'

  It was as if he was speaking to himself. My fingers rested on his shoulder. I could feel the muscles move be
neath his shirt as he breathed.

  'I am a good man, Sophie,' he murmured. 'It is important to me that you understand that. That we understand each other.'

  And then the music stopped. He released me reluctantly, and went to reset the needle. He waited for the music to start again, and then, instead of dancing, he gazed for a moment at my portrait. I felt a glimmer of hope - perhaps he would still change his mind? - but then, after the slightest hesitation, he reached up and gently pulled one of the pins from my hair. As I stood, frozen, he removed the remaining pins carefully, one by one, placing them on the table, letting my hair fall softly around my face. He had drunk almost nothing but there was a glazed quality to his expression, as he watched, melancholy. His eyes searched mine, asking a question. My own gaze was unblinking, like that of a porcelain doll. But I did not look away.

  As the last of my hair was released, he lifted a hand and allowed the lock to trail through his fingers. His stillness was that of a man afraid to move, a hunter unwilling to startle his prey. And then he took my face gently between his hands and kissed me. I felt momentary panic; I couldn't bring myself to kiss him back. But I allowed my lips to part for his, closed my eyes. Shock made my body alien to me. I felt his hands tighten around my waist, felt him propelling me backwards towards the bed. And all the while a silent voice reminded me that this was a trade. I was buying my husband his freedom. All I had to do was breathe. I kept my eyes closed, lay down against the impossible softness of the quilts. I felt his hands on my feet, pulling my shoes off, and then they were on my legs, sliding slowly up under my skirt. I could feel his eyes on my flesh as they rose higher.

  Edouard.

  He kissed me. He kissed my mouth, my chest, my bare stomach, his breathing audible, lost in a world of his own imaginings. He kissed my knees, my stockinged thighs, letting his mouth rest against bare skin as if its proximity were a source of unbearable pleasure. 'Sophie,' he murmured. 'Oh, Sophie ...'

  And as his hands reached the innermost part of my thighs, some treacherous part of me sparked into life, a warmth that was nothing to do with the fire. Some part of me divorced itself from my heart, and let slip its hunger for touch, for the weight of a body against my own. As his lips traced my skin, I shifted slightly and out of nowhere a moan escaped my mouth. But the urgency of his response, the quickening of his breath on my face, quelled it as fast as it was born. My skirts were pushed up, my blouse pulled from my chest, and as I felt his mouth on my breast, I found myself turning, like some mythical figure, to stone.