The Girl You Left Behind

rubbing her good fortune in everybody’s faces. Who does she think she
     is?’
    Monsieur Armand watched the young woman
     crossing the square. Suddenly he smiled. ‘I wouldn’t worry, ladies. Not
     everything goes her way.’
    We looked at him.
    ‘Can you keep a secret?’
    I don’t know why he bothered asking.
     Those two old women could barely stay silent for ten seconds at a time.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Let’s just say some of us make
     sure Miss Fancy Pants gets special treatment she wasn’t expecting.’
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘Her loaves live under the counter by
     themselves. Theycontain some special ingredients. Ingredients that I
     promise you go into none of my other loaves.’
    The old women’s eyes widened. I dared
     not ask what the baker meant, but the glint in his eye suggested several possibilities,
     none of which I wanted to dwell upon.
    ‘
Non!
’
    ‘Monsieur Armand!’ They were
     scandalized, but they began to cackle.
    I felt sick then. I didn’t like
     Liliane Béthune, or what she was doing, but this revolted me. ‘I’ve –
     I’ve got to go. Hélène needs … ’ I reached for my bread.
     Their laughter still ringing in my ears, I ran for the relative safety of the hotel.
    The food came the following Friday. First
     the eggs, two dozen, delivered by a young German corporal, who brought them in covered
     with a white sheet, as if he were delivering contraband. Then bread, white and fresh, in
     three baskets. I had gone off bread a little since that day in the
boulangerie
,
     but to hold fresh loaves, crusty and warm, left me almost drunk with desire. I had to
     send Aurélien upstairs, I was so afraid he would be unable to resist the temptation
     to break off a mouthful.
    Next, six hens, their feathers still on, and
     a crate containing cabbage, onions, carrots and wild garlic. After this came jars of
     preserved tomatoes, rice and apples. Milk, coffee, three fat pats of butter, flour,
     sugar. Bottles and bottles of wine from the south. Hélène and I accepted each
     delivery in silence. The Germans handed us forms, upon which each amount had been
     carefully noted. There would be no easy stealing: a form requested that we notethe exact amounts used for each recipe. They also asked that we
     place any scraps in a pail for collection to feed livestock. When I saw that I wanted to
     spit.
    ‘We are doing this for tonight?’
     I asked the last corporal.
    He shrugged. I pointed at the clock.
     ‘Today?’ I gestured at the food. ‘
Kuchen?
’
    ‘
Ja
,’ he said, nodding
     enthusiastically. ‘
Sie kommen. Acht Uhr
.’
    ‘Eight o’clock,’
     Hélène said, from behind me. ‘They want to eat at eight
     o’clock.’
    Our own supper had been a slice of black
     bread, spread thinly with jam and accompanied by some boiled beetroot. To have to roast
     chickens, to fill our kitchen with the scents of garlic and tomato, with apple tart,
     felt like a form of torture. I was afraid, that first evening, even to lick my fingers,
     although the sight of them, dripping with tomato juice or sticky with apple, was sorely
     tempting. There were several times, as I rolled pastry, or peeled apples, that I almost
     fainted with longing. We had to shoo Mimi, Aurélien and little Jean upstairs, from
     where we heard occasional howls of protest.
    I did not want to cook the Germans a fine
     meal. But I was too afraid not to. At some point, I told myself, as I pulled the
     roasting chickens from the oven, basting them with sizzling juice, perhaps I might enjoy
     the sight of this food. Perhaps I might relish the chance to see it again, to smell it.
     But that night I could not. By the time the doorbell rang, notifying us of the
     officers’ arrival, my stomach clawed and my skin sweated with hunger. I hated the
     Germans with an intensity I have never felt before or since.
    ‘Madame.’ The
Kommandant
was the first to enter. He removed his rain-spattered cap and motioned to his officers
     to do the same.
    I stood, wiping my hands on my apron, unsure
     how to react. ‘Herr Kommandant.’ My face was expressionless.
    The room was warm: the Germans had sent
     three baskets of logs so that we might make up a fire. The men were divesting themselves
     of scarves and hats, sniffing the air, already grinning with anticipation. The scent of
     the chicken, roasted in a garlic and tomato sauce, had thoroughly infused the air.
     ‘I think we will eat immediately,’ he said, glancing towards