The Girl You Left Behind

nonchalantly into the back and the vehicle lurched forwards.
    A sob of relief filled my chest. ‘Sons
     of whores,’ I whispered in French. Liliane squeezed my hand with her good one.
     Hearts thumping, we moved, trembling, back on to our benches. As we finally pulled out
     of the little town, the adrenalin slowly drained from my body and I found myself almost
     bone-dead with exhaustion. I was afraid to sleep then, afraid of what might come next,
     but Liliane, her eyes rigidly open, was scanning the tiny patch of landscape visible
     through the canvas. Some selfish part of me knew she would look out for me, that she
     would not sleep again. I laid my head on the bench, and as my heartbeat finally returned
     to normal I closed my eyes and allowed myself to sink into nothingness.
    There was snow at the next stop: a bleak
     plain with only a small copse and a derelict shed to break the flat landscape. We were
     hauled out into the dusk and shoved towards the trees, mutely instructed, with the wave
     of a gun, as to what we should do. There was nothing left in me. Shivering and feverish,
     I could barely stand. Liliane limped off to the relative privacy of the shed, and as I
     watched her, the landscape swayed around me. I sankdown into the
     snow, vaguely aware of the men stamping their feet by the truck. Part of me relished the
     icy cool against my hot legs. I let the cold air settle on my skin, the blood cool in my
     veins, enjoying the brief sensation of being anchored again to the earth. I looked up at
     the infinite sky, through which tiny glittering stars were emerging, until I felt dizzy.
     I made myself recall the nights, so many months ago, when I had believed he might be out
     there, looking at the same stars. And then, with my finger, I reached down into the
     crystalline surface and wrote: ÉDOUARD.
    After a moment, I wrote it again on the
     other side of me, as if to persuade myself that he was real, somewhere, and that he –
     and we – had existed. I wrote it, my blue-tinged fingers pressing into the snow, until I
     had surrounded myself with it
. Édouard. Édouard. Édouard
. I
     wrote his name ten, twenty times. It was all I could see. I was in a great ring of
     Édouards, all dancing up at me. It would be so easy to tip over here, to sit in my
     Palace of Édouard and let it all go. I leaned back a little and began to laugh.
    Liliane came out from behind the shed and
     stopped. I saw her staring at me and in her face I saw suddenly the same expression that
     Hélène had once worn, a kind of exhaustion, not from within but from weariness
     with the world, a fleeting indecision as to whether this was a battle she still had the
     energy to fight. And something pulled me back.
    ‘I – I – my skirt is wet,’ I
     said. It was the only sensible thing I could think of to say.
    ‘It’s just snow.’ She
     pulled me up by my arm, brushed off the snow and, with her limping and me swaying, wemade our way back past the incurious soldiers and their guns and
     climbed into the truck.
    Light. Liliane was looking into my eyes,
     her hand over my mouth. I blinked and involuntarily bucked against her, but she lifted
     her finger to her lips. She waited until I nodded, to show I understood, and as she
     removed her hand I realized that the truck had stopped again. We were in a forest. Snow
     blanketed the ground in piebald patches, stilling movement and stifling sound.
    She pointed at the guard. He was fast
     asleep, lying across the bench, his head resting on his kit bag. He was snoring,
     completely vulnerable, his holster visible, several inches of neck bare above his
     collar. I found my hand reaching involuntarily into my pocket, fingering the shard of
     glass.
    ‘Jump,’ whispered Liliane.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Jump. If we keep to that dip, there,
     where there is no snow, we will leave no footprints. We can be hours away by the time
     they wake up.’
    ‘But we are in Germany.’
    ‘I speak a little German. We will find
     our way out.’
    She was animated, filled with conviction. I
     don’t think I had seen her so alive since St Péronne. I blinked at the
     sleeping soldier, then back at Liliane, who was now carefully lifting the flap, peering
     out at the blue light.
    ‘But they will shoot us if they catch
     us.’
    ‘They will shoot us if we stay. And if
     they don’t shoot us it will be worse. Come. This is our chance.’ She mouthed
     the word, motioning silently for me to pick up my bag.
    I