The Girl You Left Behind

we were like
     savages. We tore at the flesh, scooped handfuls of rice, ate with our mouths open,
     picking wildly at the bits that fell on to the table. I no longer cared whether this was
     some trick on the
Kommandant
’s part. I have never tasted anything as good
     as that chicken. The garlic and tomatoes filled my mouth with long-forgotten pleasure,
     my nostrils with scents I could have inhaled for ever. We emitted little sounds of
     delight as we ate, primal and uninhibited, each locked into our own private world of
     satisfaction. Baby Jean laughed and covered his face with juice. Mimi chewed pieces of
     chicken skin, sucking the grease from her fingers with noisy relish. Hélène
     and I ate without speaking, always ensuring the little ones had enough.
    When there was nothing left, when every bone
     had been sucked of its meat, the trays emptied of each last grain of rice, we sat and
     stared at each other. From the bar, we could hear the chatter of the Germans becoming
     noisier, as they consumed their wine, and occasional bursts of their laughter. I wiped
     my mouth with my hands.
    ‘We must tell no one,’ I said,
     rinsing them. I felt like a drunk who had suddenly become sober. ‘This may neverhappen again. And we must behave as if it did not happen once. If
     anyone finds out that we ate the Germans’ food, we will be considered
     traitors.’
    We gazed at Mimi and Aurélien then,
     trying to impart to them the seriousness of what we were saying. Aurélien nodded.
     Mimi too. I think they would have agreed to speak German for ever in those moments.
     Hélène grabbed a dishcloth, wetted it, and set about removing traces of the
     meal from the faces of the two youngest. ‘Aurélien,’ she said,
     ‘take them to bed. We will clear up.’
    He was not infected by my misgivings. He was
     smiling. His thin, adolescent shoulders had dropped for the first time in months, and as
     he picked up Jean, I swear he would have whistled if he could. ‘No one,’ I
     warned him.
    ‘I know,’ he said, in the tone
     of a fourteen-year-old who knows everything. Little Jean was already slumping
     heavy-lidded on his shoulder, his first full meal in months exhausting him. They
     disappeared back up the stairs. The sound of their laughter as they reached the top made
     my heart ache.
    It was past eleven o’clock when the
     Germans left. We had been under a curfew for almost a year; when the nights drew in, if
     we had no candles or acetylene lamps, Hélène and I had acquired the habit of
     going to bed. The bar shut at six, had done since the occupation, and we hadn’t
     been up so late for months. We were exhausted. Our stomachs gurgled with the shock of
     rich food after months of near-starvation. I saw my sister slump as she scrubbed the
     roasting pans. I did not feel quite as tired, and my brain flickered with the memory of
     the chicken: it was as iflong-dead nerves had been sparked into
     life. I could still taste and smell it. It burned in my mind like a tiny, glowing
     treasure.
    Some time before the kitchen was clean again
     I sent Hélène upstairs. She pushed her hair back from her face. She had been
     so beautiful, my sister. When I looked at how the war had aged her, I thought of my own
     face, and wondered what my husband would make of me.
    ‘I don’t like to leave you alone
     with them,’ she said.
    I shook my head. I wasn’t afraid: the
     mood was peaceable. It is hard to rouse men who have eaten well. They had been drinking,
     but the bottles allowed for maybe three glasses each; not enough to provoke them to
     misbehaviour. My father had given us precious little, God knew, but he had taught us
     when to be afraid. I could watch a stranger and know from a tightening of their jaw, a
     faint narrowing of the eyes, the exact point at which internal tension would lead to a
     flash of violence. Besides, I suspected the
Kommandant
would not tolerate
     such.
    I stayed in the kitchen, clearing up, until
     the sound of chairs being pushed back alerted me to the fact that they were leaving. I
     walked through to the bar.
    ‘You may close up now,’ the
Kommandant
said. I tried not to bristle visibly. ‘My men wish to
     convey to you their gratitude for an excellent meal.’
    I glanced at them. I gave a slight nod. I
     did not wish to be seen as grateful for the compliments of Germans.
    He did not seem to expect a response. He
     placed his cap on his head, and I reached into my pocket and handed him