The Girl You Left Behind

faces looked blankly at me. I tried again.
    ‘
Ici
,’ said a voice
     near the back. I began to make my way carefully down the length of the carriage, trying
     not to disturb those who were sleeping. I heard a voice that might have been Russian. I
     trod on someone’s hair, and was cursed. Finally I reached the rear of the
     carriage. A shaven-headed man was looking at me. His face was scarred, as if with some
     recent pox, and his cheekbones jutted from his face like those of a skull.
    ‘
Français?
’ he
     said.
    ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘What is
     this? Where are we going?’
    ‘Where are we going?’ He regarded
     me with astonishment, and then, when he grasped that my question was serious, laughed
     mirthlessly.
    ‘Tours, Amiens, Lille. How would I
     know? They keep us on some endless cross-country chase so that none of us knows where we
     are.’
    I was about to speak again when I saw the
     shape on the floor. A black coat so familiar that at first I dared not look closer. I
     stepped forward, past the man, and knelt down. ‘Liliane?’ I could see her
     face, still bruised, under what remained of her hair. She opened one eye, as if she did
     not trust her ears. ‘Liliane! It’s Sophie.’
    She gazed at me. ‘Sophie,’ she
     whispered. Then she lifted a hand and touched mine. ‘Édith?’ Even in
     her frail state I could hear the fear in her voice.
    ‘She is with Hélène. She is
     safe.’
    The eye closed.
    ‘Are you sick?’ It was then I
     saw the blood, dried, around her skirt. Her deathly pallor.
    ‘Has she been like this for
     long?’
    The Frenchman shrugged, as if he had seen
     too many bodies like Liliane’s to feel anything as distinct as compassion now.
     ‘She was here some hours ago when we came aboard.’
    Her lips were chapped, her eyes sunken.
     ‘Does anyone have water?’ I called. A few faces turned to me.
    The Frenchman said pityingly, ‘You
     think this is a buffet car?’
    I tried again, my voice lifting. ‘Does
     anyone have a sip of water?’ I could see faces turning to each other.
    ‘This woman risked her life to bring
     information to ourtown. If anyone has water, please, just a few
     drops.’ A murmur went through the carriage. ‘Please! For the love of
     God!’ And then, astonishingly, minutes later, an enamel bowl was passed along. It
     had a half-inch of what might have been rainwater in the bottom. I called out my thanks
     and lifted Liliane’s head gently, tipping the precious drops into her mouth.
    The Frenchman seemed briefly animated.
     ‘We should hold cups, bowls, anything out of the carriage if possible, while it
     rains. We do not know when we will next receive food or water.’
    Liliane swallowed painfully. I positioned
     myself on the floor so that she could rest against me. With a squeal and the harsh
     grinding of metal on rails, the train moved off into the countryside.
    I could not tell you how long we stayed on
     that train. It moved slowly, stopping frequently and without obvious reason. I stared
     out through the gap in the splintered boards, watching the endless movement of troops,
     prisoners and civilians through my battered country, holding the dozing Liliane in my
     arms. The rain grew heavier, and there were murmurs of satisfaction as the occupants
     passed round water they had gleaned. I was cold, but glad of the rain and the low
     temperature: I could not imagine how hellish this carriage might become in the heat when
     the odours would worsen.
    As the hours stretched, the Frenchman and I
     talked. I asked about the number-plate on his cap, the red stripe on his jacket, and he
     told me he had come from the ZAB – the
Zivilarbeiter Battalione
, prisoners who
     were used for thevery worst of jobs, shipped to the front, exposed
     to Allied fire. He told me of the trains he saw each week, packed with boys, women and
     young girls, criss-crossing the country to the Somme, to Escaut and Ardennes, to work as
     slave labour for the Germans. Tonight, he said, we would lodge in ruined barracks,
     factories or schools in evacuated villages. He did not know whether we would be taken to
     a prison camp or a work battalion.
    ‘They keep us weak through lack of
     food, so that we will not try to escape. Most are now grateful merely to stay
     alive.’ He asked if I had food in my bag and was disappointed when I had to say
     no. I gave him a handkerchief that Hélène had packed, feeling obliged to give
     him something. He looked at its