The Girl You Left Behind

bring Édouard home.
    The moon disappeared behind a cloud and I
     stumbled down the farm track, my feet several times disappearing into ruts of icy water
     so that my shoes and stockings were drenched and my cold fingers tightened round the
     painting for fear that I would drop it. I could just make out the distant lights within
     the house, and I kept walking towards them. Dim shapes moved ahead of me on the verges,
     rabbits perhaps, and the outline of a fox crept across the road, pausing briefly to
     stare at me, insolent and unafraid. Moments later I heard the terrified squeal of a
     rabbit and had to force down the bile it brought to my throat.
    The farm loomed ahead now, its lights
     blazing. I heard the rumble of a truck and my breath quickened. I leaped backwards into
     a hedge, ducking out of the beam of the headlights as a military vehicle bounced and
     whined its way past. In the rear, under a flap of canvas, I could just make out the
     faces of women, seated beside each other. I stared as they disappeared, then pulled
     myself out of the hedge, my shawls catching on the twigs. There were rumours that the
     Germans brought in girls from outside the town; until now I had believed them to be just
     that. I thought of Liliane again and offered up a silent prayer.
    I was at the entrance to the farm. A hundred
     feet ahead of me I saw the truck stop, the shadowy forms of womenwalking in silence to a door on the left, as if this were a route they had taken many
     times before. I heard men’s voices, the distant sound of singing.
    ‘
Halt.
’
    The soldier stepped out in front of me. I
     jumped. He lifted his rifle, then peered more closely. He gestured towards the other
     women.
    ‘No … no. I am here to see
     Herr Kommandant.’
    He gestured again, impatiently.
    ‘
Nein
,’ I said, louder.
     ‘Herr Kommandant. I have … an appointment.’
    ‘Herr Kommandant?’
    I could not see his face. But the silhouette
     appeared to study me, then strode across the yard to where I could just make out a door.
     He rapped on it, and I heard a muttered conversation. I waited, my heart thumping, my
     skin prickling with anxiety.
    ‘
Wie heist?
’ he said,
     when he returned.
    ‘I am Madame Lefèvre,’ I
     whispered.
    He gestured to my shawl, which I pulled
     briefly from my head, exposing my face. He waved towards a door across the courtyard.
     ‘
Diese Tur. Obergeschosse. Grune Tur auf der rechten
     Seite.
’
    ‘What?’ I said. ‘I
     don’t understand.’
    He grew impatient again. ‘
Da,
     da
.’ He gestured, taking my elbow and propelling me forwards roughly. I
     was shocked that he would treat a visitor to the
Kommandant
in such a way. And
     then it dawned on me: my protestations that I was married were meaningless. I was simply
     another woman, calling on Germans after dark. I was glad that he could not see the
     colour that sprang to my cheeks. Iwrenched my elbow from his grasp
     and walked stiffly towards the small building on the right.
    It was not hard to see which room was his:
     light crept from under only one door. I hesitated outside, then knocked and said
     quietly, ‘Herr Kommandant?’
    The sound of footsteps, the door opened, and
     I took a small step back. He was out of his uniform, dressed in a striped, collarless
     shirt and braces, a book dangling from one hand, as if I had interrupted him. He looked
     at me, half smiled, as if in greeting, and stepped back to allow me in.
    The room was large, thick with beams, and
     its floorboards covered with rugs, several of which I thought I recognized from the
     homes of my neighbours. There was a small table and chairs, a military chest, its brass
     corners glowing in the light of two acetylene lamps, a coat hook, from which hung his
     uniform, and a large easy chair by a generously stacked fire. Its warmth was evident
     even from the other side of the room. In the corner was a bed, with two thick quilts. I
     glanced at it and looked away.
    ‘Here.’ He was standing behind
     me, lifting the shawls from my back. ‘Let me take these.’
    I allowed him to remove them and hang them
     on the coat hook, still clutching the painting to my chest. Even as I stood almost
     paralysed, I felt ashamed of my shabby clothing. We could not wash clothes often in this
     cold: wool took weeks to dry, or simply froze into rigid shapes outside.
    ‘It’s bitter out,’ he
     observed. ‘I can feel it on your clothes.’
    ‘Yes.’ My voice, when it