The Girl You Left Behind

worked it out. Truthfully, the world seemed so insane back
     then – with what was going on in the camps, and grown men weeping, and me in
     charge of a billion dollars’ worth of other people’s things – that
     old Liesl and her bleeding knuckles scrubbing away at nothing seemed actually
     pretty normal.’
    ‘Your Honour, we would suggest that
     this – and Liesl’s failure to give her last name – is pretty clear evidence of
     somebody trying to disguise or even destroy any sign of where the painting had come
     from. Well, she certainly succeeded.’
    As he pauses, a member of his legal team
     crosses the court and hands him a piece of paper. He reads it and takes a breath. His
     eyes scan the courtroom.
    ‘German census records we have just
     obtained show that Sophie Lefèvre contracted Spanish influenza shortly after she
     arrived at the camps at Ströhen. She died there shortly afterwards.’
    Liv hears his words through a buzzing in her
     ears. They vibrate within her, like the aftershock of a physical blow.
    ‘Your Honour, as we have heard in this
     court, a great injustice was done to Sophie. And a great injustice has been done to her
     descendants. Her husband, her dignity, her freedom and ultimately her life were taken
     from her. Stolen. What remained – her image – was, according to all the evidence, taken
     from her family by the very man who had done her the greatest wrong.
    ‘There is only one way to redress this
     wrong, belated asit might be – the painting must be returned to the
     Lefèvre family.’
    She barely takes in the rest of his words.
     Paul sits with his forehead in his palms. She looks over at Janey Dickinson, and when
     the woman meets her eye, she realizes with a faint shock that for some other
     participants, too, this case is no longer just about a painting.
    Even Henry is downcast when they leave the
     court. Liv feels as if they have all been run over by a juggernaut.
    Sophie died in the camps. Sick and alone.
     Never seeing her husband again.
    She looks at the smiling Lefèvres
     across the court, wanting to feel generous towards them. Wanting to feel as if some
     great wrong is about to be righted. But she recalls Philippe Bessette’s words, the
     fact that the family had banned even the mention of her name. She feels as if, for a
     second time, Sophie is about to be handed over to the enemy. She feels, weirdly,
     bereaved.
    ‘Look, who knows what the judge will
     decide,’ Henry says, as he sees her to the rear security area. ‘Try not to
     dwell on it too much over the weekend. There’s nothing more we can do
     now.’
    She tries to smile at him. ‘Thanks,
     Henry,’ she says. ‘I’ll – call you.’
    It feels strange out here, in the wintry
     sunlight, as if they have spent much longer than an afternoon in the confines of the
     court. She feels as if she has come here straight from 1945. Henry hails a taxi for her,
     then leaves, nodding farewell. It is then that she sees him, standing atthe security gate. He looks as if he has been waiting there for her,
     and walks straight over.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, his
     face grim.
    ‘Paul, don’t –’
    ‘I really thought – I’m sorry
     for everything.’
    His eyes meet hers, one final time, and he
     walks away, blind to the customers exiting the Seven Stars pub, the legal assistants
     dragging their trolleys of files. She sees the stoop to his shoulders, the
     uncharacteristic dip of his head and it is this, on top of everything else that has
     happened today, that finally settles something for her.
    ‘Paul!’ She has to yell twice to
     be heard over the sound of the traffic. ‘Paul!’
    He turns. She can see the points of his
     irises even from here.
    ‘I know.’ He stands very still
     for a minute, a tall man, a little broken, in a good suit. ‘I know. Thank
     you … for trying.’
    Sometimes life is a series of obstacles, a
     matter of putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes, she realizes suddenly, it
     is simply a matter of blind faith. ‘Would you … would you like to go for
     that drink some time?’ She swallows. ‘Now, even?’
    He glances at his shoes, thinking, then up
     at her again. ‘Would you give me one minute?’
    He walks back up the steps of the court. She
     sees Janey Dickinson deep in conversation with her lawyer. Paul touches her elbow, and
     there is a brief exchange of words. She feels anxious – a little voice nagging:
What
     is he telling her