The Girl You Left Behind

both knew something had changed.
    It was Hélène who went to the
     market the following morning. Only a few stalls were out, these days, some preserved
     meats, some fearsomely expensive eggs and a few vegetables, and an elderly man from La
     Vendée who made new undergarments from old fabric. I stayed in the hotel bar,
     serving the few customers we had left and trying not to mind that I was evidently still
     the subject of some unfriendly discussion.
    At about half past ten we became aware of a
     commotion outside. I wondered briefly whether it was more prisoners, but
     Hélène came rushing in, her hair loose and her eyes wide.
    ‘You’ll never guess,’ she
     said. ‘It’s Liliane.’
    My heart began to thump. I dropped the
     ashtrays I was cleaning and ran for the door, flanked by the other customers who had
     risen as one from their seats. Up the road came Liliane Béthune. She was wearing
     her astrakhan coat, but she no longer looked like a Parisian model. She had on nothing
     else. Her legs were mottled blue with a mixture of cold and bruising. Her feet were bare
     and bloodied, her left eye half closed with swelling. Her hair lay unpinned around her
     face and she limped, as if every step were a Sisyphean effort. On each side of her stood
     two goading German officers, a group of soldiers following close behind. For once, they
     seemed not to mind when we came out to stare.
    That beautiful astrakhan coat was grey with
     dirt. Onthe back of it were not just sticky patches of blood but the
     unmistakable smears of phlegm.
    As I stared at it, I heard a sob.
     ‘
Maman! Maman!
’ Behind her, held back by other soldiers, I now
     saw Édith, Liliane’s seven-year-old daughter. She sobbed and writhed, trying
     to reach past them to her mother, her face contorted. One gripped her arm, not letting
     her anywhere close. Another smirked, as if it were amusing. Liliane walked on as if
     oblivious, in a private world of pain, her head lowered. As she came past the hotel a
     low jeering broke out.
    ‘See the proud whore now!’
    ‘Do you think the Germans will still
     want you, Liliane?’
    ‘They’ve tired of her. And good
     riddance.’
    I could not believe these were my own
     countrymen. I gazed around me at the hate-filled faces, the scornful smiles, and when I
     could bear it no longer, I pushed through them and ran towards Édith. ‘Give
     me the child,’ I demanded. I saw now that the whole town seemed to have come to
     watch this spectacle. They were catcalling at Liliane from upstairs windows, from across
     the marketplace.
    Édith sobbed, her voice pleading.
     ‘
Maman!
’
    ‘Give me the child!’ I cried.
     ‘Or are Germans persecuting little children now too?’
    The officer holding her looked behind him
     and I saw Herr Kommandant standing by the post office. He said something to the officer
     beside him, and after a moment the child was released to me. I swept her into my arms.
     ‘It’s all right, Édith. You come with me.’ She buried her face in
     my shoulder, crying inconsolably, one arm still reaching vainly in the direction of her
     mother. I thought Isaw Liliane’s face turn slightly towards
     me, but at this distance it was impossible to say.
    I carried Édith quickly into the bar,
     away from the eyes of the town, away from the sound of the jeering as it picked up
     again, away into the back of the hotel where she would hear nothing. The child was
     hysterical, and who could blame her? I took her to our bedroom, gave her some water,
     then held her in my arms and rocked her. I told her again and again that it would be all
     right, we would make it all right, even though I knew we could do nothing of the sort.
     She cried until she was exhausted. From her swollen face I guessed she had been crying
     much of the night. God only knew what she had seen. Finally she became limp in my arms
     and I laid her carefully in my bed, covering her with blankets. Then I made my way
     downstairs.
    As I walked into the bar, there was silence.
     Le Coq Rouge was busier than it had been in weeks, Hélène rushing between the
     tables with a loaded tray. I saw the mayor in the doorway, then stared at the faces
     before me and realized I no longer knew any of them.
    ‘Are you satisfied?’ I said, my
     voice breaking as I spoke. ‘A child lies upstairs having watched you spit and jeer
     at her brutalized mother. People she thought were her friends. Are you proud?’
    My sister’s hand landed on