Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella

oven.
    The piglet, still only half grown, blinked
    sleepily. It lifted itself to its feet, peered out at me from its bed of straw and
    grunted. Surely I’ve told you about the pig? We liberated it during the
    requisition of Monsieur Girard’s farm. Like a gift from God, it had strayed in the
    chaos, meandering away from the piglets being loaded into the back of a German truck and
    was swiftly swallowed by the thick skirts of Grandma Poilâne. We’ve been fattening
    it on acorns and scraps for weeks, in the hope of raising it to a size great enough for
    us all to have some meat. The thought of that crisp skin, that moist pork, has kept the
    inhabitants of Le Coq Rouge going for the past month.
    Outside I heard my brother yelp again, then
    my sister’s voice, rapid and urgent, cut short by the harsh tones of a German
    officer. The pig looked at me with intelligent, understanding eyes, as if it already
    knew its fate.
    ‘I’m so sorry,
mon
petit
,’ I whispered, ‘but this really is the only way.’ And I
    brought down my hand.
    I was outside in a matter of moments. I had
    woken Mimi, telling her only that she must come but to stay silent – the child has seen
    so much these last months that she obeys without question. She glanced up at me holding
    her baby brother, slid out of bed and placed a hand in mine.
    The air was sharp with the approach of
    winter, the smell of woodsmoke lingering in the air from our brief fire earlier in the
    evening. I saw the
Kommandant
through the stone archway of the back door and
    hesitated. It was not Herr Becker, whom we knew and despised. This was a slimmer man,
    clean-shaven, impassive. Even in the dark I could see intelligence, not brutish
    ignorance, in his face, which made me afraid.
    This new
Kommandant
was gazing
    speculatively up at our windows, perhaps considering whether this building might provide
    a more suitable billet than the Fourrier farm, where senior German officers slept. I
    suspect he knew that our elevated aspect would give him a vantage-point across the town.
    There were stables for horses and ten bedrooms, from the days when our home was the
    town’s thriving hotel.
    Hélène was on the cobbles,
    shielding Aurélien with her arms.
    One of his men had raised his rifle, but the
Kommandant
lifted his hand. ‘Stand up,’ he ordered them.
    Hélène scrambled backwards, away from him. I glimpsed her face, taut with
    fear.
    I felt Mimi’s hand tighten round mine
    as she saw her mother, and I gave hers a squeeze, even though my heart was in my mouth.
    And I strode out. ‘What, in God’s name, is going on?’ My voice rang
    out in the yard.
    The
Kommandant
glanced towards me,
    surprised by my tone: a young woman walking through the arched entrance to the farmyard,
    a thumb-sucking child at her skirts, another swaddled and clutched to her chest. My
    night bonnet sat slightly askew, my white cotton nightgown so worn now that it barely
    registered as fabric against my skin. I prayed that he could not hear the almost audible
    thumping of my heart.
    I addressed him directly: ‘And for
    what supposed misdemeanour have your men come to punish us now?’
    I guessed he had not heard a woman speak to
    him in this way since his last leave home. The silence that fell upon the courtyard was
    steeped in shock. My brother and sister, on the ground, twisted round, the better to see
    me,only too aware of where such insubordination might leave us
    all.
    ‘You are?’
    ‘Madame Lefèvre.’
    I could see he was checking for the presence
    of my wedding ring. He needn’t have bothered: like most women in our area, I had
    long since sold it for food.
    ‘Madame. We have information that you
    are harbouring illegal livestock.’ His French was passable, suggesting previous
    postings in the occupied territory, his voice calm. This was not a man who felt
    threatened by the unexpected.
    ‘Livestock?’
    ‘A reliable source tells us that you
    are keeping a pig on the premises. You will be aware that, under the directive, the
    penalty for withholding livestock from the administration is imprisonment.’
    I held his gaze. ‘And I know exactly
    who would inform you of such a thing. It’s Monsieur Suel,
non
?’ My
    cheeks were flushed with colour; my hair, twisted into a long plait that hung over my
    shoulder, felt electrified. It prickled at the nape of my neck.
    The
Kommandant
turned to one of his
    minions. The man’s glance sideways told him this was true.
    ‘Monsieur Suel,