The Girl You Left Behind

the
     kitchen.
    ‘As you wish,’ I said. ‘I
     will fetch the wine.’
    Aurélien had opened several bottles in
     the kitchen. He came out scowling now, two in his hands. The torture this evening had
     inflicted on us had upset him in particular. I was afraid, given the recent beating, his
     youth and impulsive nature, that he would get himself into trouble. I swept the bottles
     from his hands. ‘Go and tell Hélène she must serve the
     dinner.’
    ‘But –’
    ‘Go!’ I scolded him. I walked
     around the bar, pouring wine. I did not look at any of them as I placed the glasses on
     the tables, even though I felt their eyes on me. Yes, look at me, I told them silently.
     Another scrawny Frenchwoman, starved into submission by you. I hope my appearance rots
     your appetites.
    My sister brought out the first plates to
     murmurs of appreciation. Within minutes the men were tucking in, their cutlery
     clattering against the china, exclaiming in their own language. I walked backwards and
     forwardswith loaded plates, trying not to breathe in the delicious
     scents, trying not to look at the roasted meat, glistening besides the bright
     vegetables.
    At last, they were all served.
     Hélène and I stood together behind the bar, as the
Kommandant
made
     some lengthy toast in German. I cannot tell you how it felt then to hear those voices in
     our home; to see them eating the food we had so carefully prepared, relaxing and
     laughing and drinking. I am strengthening these men, I thought miserably, while my
     beloved Édouard may be weak with hunger. And this thought, perhaps with my own
     hunger and exhaustion, made me feel a brief despair. A small sob escaped my throat.
     Hélène’s hand reached for mine. She squeezed it. ‘Go to the
     kitchen,’ she murmured.
    ‘I –’
    ‘Go to the kitchen. I will join you
     when I have refilled their glasses.’
    Just this once, I did as my sister said.
    They ate for an hour. She and I sat in
     silence in the kitchen, lost in exhaustion and the confusion of our thoughts. Every time
     we heard a swell of laughter or a hearty exclamation, we looked up. It was so hard to
     know what any of it meant.
    ‘Mesdames.’ The
Kommandant
appeared at the kitchen door. We scrambled to our feet.
     ‘The meal was excellent. I hope you can maintain this standard.’
    I looked at the floor.
    ‘Madame Lefèvre.’
    Reluctantly, I raised my eyes.
    ‘You are pale. Are you ill?’
    ‘We are quite well.’ I swallowed.
     I felt his eyes on me like a burn. Beside me, Hélène’s fingers twisted
     together, reddened from the unaccustomed hot water.
    ‘Madame, have you and your sister
     eaten?’
    I thought it was a test. I thought he was
     checking that we had followed those infernal forms to the letter. I thought he might
     weigh the leftovers, to ensure we had not sneaked a piece of apple peel into our
     mouths.
    ‘We have not touched one grain of
     rice, Herr Kommandant.’ I almost spat it at him. Hunger will do that to you.
    He blinked. ‘Then you should. You
     cannot cook well if you do not eat. What is left?’
    I couldn’t move. Hélène
     motioned to the roasting tray on the stove. There were four quarters of a chicken there,
     keeping warm in case the men wanted second helpings.
    ‘Then sit down. Eat here.’
    I could not believe this wasn’t a
     trap.
    ‘That is an order,’ he said. He
     was almost smiling, but I didn’t think it was funny. ‘Really. Go
     on.’
    ‘Would … would it be
     possible to feed something to the children? It is a long time since they had any
     meat.’
    He frowned a little, as if in
     incomprehension. I hated him. I hated the sound of my voice, begging a German for scraps
     of food. Oh, Édouard, I thought silently. If you could hear me now.
    ‘Feed your children and
     yourselves,’ he said shortly. And he turned and left the room.
    We sat there in silence, his words ringing
     in our ears. Then Hélène grabbed her skirts and ran up the stairs, taking them
     two at a time. I hadn’t seen her move so fast in months.
    Seconds later, she reappeared, with Jean in
     her arms, still in his nightshirt, Aurélien and Mimi before her.
    ‘Is it true?’ Aurélien
     said. He was staring at the chicken, his mouth hanging open.
    I could only nod.
    We fell upon that unlucky bird. I wish I
     could tell you that my sister and I were ladylike, that we picked delicately, as the
     Parisians do, that we paused to chat and wipe our mouths between bites. But