The Girl You Left Behind

to say, Aurélien.’
    ‘They say you are no better than
     Liliane Béthune.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Monsieur Suel saw you dancing with
     Herr Kommandant on Christmas Eve. Close to him, your eyes shut, your bodies pressed
     together, as if you loved him.’
    Shock made me feel almost faint.
     ‘
What?
’
    ‘They say that is the real reason you
     wanted to be away from
le réveillon
, to be alone with him. They say that
     is why we are getting extra supplies. You are the German’s favourite.’
    ‘Is this why you have been fighting at
     school?’ I thought back to his black eye, his sullen refusal to speak when I asked
     him how he had come to receive it.
    ‘Is it true?’
    ‘No, it is
not
true.’ I
     slammed my rolling pin down on the side. ‘He asked … he asked if we
     might dance, just once, as it was Christmas, and I thought it better if he were thinking
     about dancing and being here, rather than risk him wondering what was going on at Madame
     Poilâne’s. There was nothing more to it than that – your sister tryingto protect you for that one evening. That dance won you a pork
     supper, Aurélien.’
    ‘But I have seen him. I have seen the
     way he admires you.’
    ‘He admires my portrait. There is a
     huge difference.’
    ‘I have heard the way he talks to
     you.’
    I frowned at him, and he raised his eyes to
     the ceiling. Of course: his hours spent peering through the floorboards of Room Three.
     Aurélien must have heard and seen everything.
    ‘You can’t deny he likes you. He
     says “
tu
”, not “
vous
” when he talks to you,
     and you let him.’
    ‘He is a German
Kommandant
,
     Aurélien. I don’t have much say in how he chooses to address me.’
    ‘They are all talking about you,
     Sophie. I sit upstairs and I hear the names they call you and I don’t know what to
     believe.’ His eyes burned with anger and confusion.
    I walked over to him and grasped his
     shoulders. ‘Then believe this. I have done nothing,
nothing
, to shame
     myself or my husband. Every day I seek new ways to keep our family well, to keep our
     neighbours and friends in food, comfort and hope. I have no feelings for the
Kommandant
. I try to remember that he is a human being, just as we are. But
     if you think, Aurélien, that I would ever betray my husband, you are a fool. I love
     Édouard with every part of me. Every day he is gone I feel his absence as if it
     were an actual pain. At night I lie awake fearing what might befall him. And now I do
     not ever want to hear you speak like this again. Do you hear me?’
    He shook off my hand.
    ‘Do you hear me?’
    He nodded sullenly.
    ‘Oh,’ I added. Perhaps I should
     not have said it, but my blood was up. ‘And do not be too swift to condemn Liliane
     Béthune. You may find you owe her more than you think.’
    My brother glared at me, then stalked out of
     the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. I stared at the pastry for several minutes
     before I remembered I was meant to be making a pie.
    Later that morning I took a walk across the
     square. Normally Hélène fetched the bread –
Kriegsbrot
– but I needed
     to clear my head, and the atmosphere in the bar had become oppressive. The air was so
     cold that January that it hurt my lungs, sheathing the bare twigs of the trees in an icy
     film, and I pulled my bonnet low over my head, my scarf up around my mouth. There were
     few people on the streets, but even then only one person, old Madame Bonnard, nodded to
     me. I told myself this was simply because, under so many layers, it was hard to tell who
     I was.
    I walked to rue des Bastides, which had been
     renamed Schieler Platz (we refused to refer to it as such). The door of the
boulangerie
was closed and I pushed at it. Inside Madame Louvier and Madame
     Durant were in animated conversation with Monsieur Armand. They stopped the moment the
     door closed behind me.
    ‘Good morning,’ I said,
     adjusting my pannier under my arm.
    The two women, muffled under layers of wool,
     nodded vaguely in my direction. Monsieur Armand simply stood, his hands on the counter
     in front of him.
    I waited, then turned to the old women.
     ‘Are you well, Madame Louvier? We have not seen you at Le Coq Rouge for several
     weeks now. I was afraid you had been taken ill.’ My voice seemed unnaturally loud
     and high in the little shop.
    ‘No,’ the old woman said.
     ‘I prefer to stay at home just now.’ She didn’t meet my eye as she
     spoke.
    ‘Did