The Girl You Left Behind

old people
     behind me broke into an echoing murmur, the singing briefly forgotten. ‘
Vive
     la France!
’
    The young soldier glanced behind him,
     perhaps for instruction from his superior, but was distracted by a shout further down
     the line. A prisoner had taken advantage of the commotion to break for freedom. The
     young man, his arm in a makeshift sling, had slipped from the ranks and was now fleeing
     across the square.
    The
Kommandant
, standing with two
     of his officers by the broken statue of Mayor Leclerc, was the first to see him.
     ‘Halt!’ he shouted. The young man ran faster, his oversized shoes slipping
     from his feet. ‘
HALT!
’
    The prisoner dropped his backpack and
     appeared briefly to pick up speed. He stumbled as he lost his second shoe, but somehow
     righted himself. He was about to disappear around the corner. The
Kommandant
whipped a pistol from his jacket. Almost before I had registered what he was doing, he
     lifted his arm, aimed and fired. The boy went down with an audible crack.
    The world stopped. The birds fell silent. We
     stared at the motionless body on the cobbles and Hélène let out a low moan.
     She made as if to go to him, but the
Kommandant
ordered us all to stay back. He
     shouted something in German, and his men raised their rifles, pointing them at the
     remaining prisoners.
    Nobody moved. The captives stared at the
     ground. They seemed unsurprised by this turn of events. Hélène’s hands
     had gone to her mouth, and she trembled, muttering something I could not hear. I slid my
     arm around her waist. I could hear my own ragged breathing.
    The
Kommandant
walked briskly away
     from us towards the prisoner. When he reached him, he dropped to his haunches, and
     pressed his fingers to the young man’s jaw. A dark red puddle already stained his
     threadbare jacket, and I could see his eyes, staring blankly across the square. The
Kommandant
squatted there for a minute, then stood again. Two German
     officers moved towards him, but he motioned them into formation. He walked back across
     the square, tucking his pistol into his jacket. He stopped briefly when he passed in
     front of the mayor.
    ‘You will make the necessary
     arrangements,’ he said.
    The mayor nodded. I saw the faint tic to his
     jaw.
    With a shout, the column moved on up the
     road, the prisoners with their heads bowed, the women of St Péronne now weeping
     openly into their handkerchiefs. The body lay in a crumpled heap a short distance across
     from rue des Bastides.
    Less than a minute after the Germans had
     marched away, René Grenier’s clock chimed a mournful quarter past the hour
     into the silence.
    That night the mood in Le Coq Rouge was
     sober. The
Kommandant
did not attempt to make conversation; neither did I give
     the slightest impression that I wished for it. Hélène and I served the meal,
     washed the cooking pots, and remained in the kitchen as far as we could. I had no
     appetite. I could not escape the image of that poor young man, his ragged clothes flying
     out behind him, his oversized shoes falling from his feet as he fled to his death.
    More than that, I could not believe that the
     officer who had whipped out his pistol and shot him so pitilessly wasthe same man who had sat at my tables, looking wistful about the child he had not
     seen, exclaiming about the art that he had. I felt foolish, as if the
Kommandant
had concealed his true self. This was what the Germans were here
     for, not discussions about art and delicious food. They were here to shoot our sons and
     husbands. They were here to destroy us.
    I missed my husband at that moment with a
     physical pain. It was now nearly three months since I had last received word from him. I
     had no idea of what he endured. While we existed in this strange bubble of isolation, I
     could convince myself that he was fine and robust, that he was out there in the real
     world, sharing a flask of cognac with his comrades, or perhaps sketching on a scrap of
     paper in some idle hours. When I closed my eyes I saw the Édouard I remembered from
     Paris. But seeing those pitiful Frenchmen marched through the streets made it harder for
     me to hold on to my fantasy. Édouard might be captured, injured, starving. He might
     be suffering as those men suffered. He might be dead.
    I leaned on the sink and closed my eyes.
    At that moment I heard the crash. Jerked
     away from my thoughts, I ran out of the kitchen. Hélène stood with her