The Girl You Left Behind

itself. I think my wife is much the
     same.’
    I barely heard him. I lifted my glass and
     took a long draught. ‘May I have some more?’ I said. I emptied it, then
     asked for it to be refilled again. I have never drunk like that, before or since. I
     didn’t care if I appeared rude. The
Kommandant
continued to talk, his
     voice a low monotone. He didn’t ask anything of me in return: it was as if hewanted me only to listen. He wanted me to know that there was
     someone else behind the uniform and the peaked cap. But I barely heard him. I wished to
     blur the world around me, for this decision not to be mine.
    ‘Do you think we would have been
     friends, if we had met in other circumstances? I like to think we would.’
    I tried to forget that I was there, in that
     room, with a German’s eyes upon me. I wanted to be a thing, unfeeling,
     unknowing.
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘Will you dance with me,
     Sophie?’
    The way he kept saying my name, as if he were entitled to.
    I put down my glass and stood, my arms
     useless at my sides as he walked over to the gramophone and put on a slow waltz. He
     moved towards me and hesitated just a minute before putting his arms around me. As the
     music crackled into life, we began to dance. I moved slowly around the room, my hand in
     his, my fingers light against the soft cotton of his shirt. I danced, my mind blank,
     vaguely conscious of his head as it came to rest against mine. I smelt soap and tobacco,
     felt his trousers brush against my skirt. He held me, not pulling me to him, but
     carefully, as one might hold something fragile. I closed my eyes, allowing myself to
     sink into a haze, trying to train my mind to follow the music, to put myself somewhere
     else. Several times I tried to imagine he was Édouard, but my mind wouldn’t
     let me. Everything about this man was too different: his feel, his size against mine,
     the scent of his skin.
    ‘Sometimes,’ he said softly,
     ‘it seems there is so little beauty left in this world. So little joy. You think
     life is harshin your little town. But if you saw what we see outside
     it … Nobody wins. Nobody wins in a war like this.’
    It was as if he was speaking to himself. My
     fingers rested on his shoulder. I could feel the muscles move beneath his shirt as he
     breathed.
    ‘I am a good man, Sophie,’ he
     murmured. ‘It is important to me that you understand that. That we understand each
     other.’
    And then the music stopped. He released me
     reluctantly, and went to reset the needle. He waited for the music to start again, and
     then, instead of dancing, he gazed for a moment at my portrait. I felt a glimmer of hope
     – perhaps he would still change his mind? – but then, after the slightest hesitation, he
     reached up and gently pulled one of the pins from my hair. As I stood, frozen, he
     removed the remaining pins carefully, one by one, placing them on the table, letting my
     hair fall softly around my face. He had drunk almost nothing but there was a glazed
     quality to his expression, as he watched, melancholy. His eyes searched mine, asking a
     question. My own gaze was unblinking, like that of a porcelain doll. But I did not look
     away.
    As the last of my hair was released, he
     lifted a hand and allowed the lock to trail through his fingers. His stillness was that
     of a man afraid to move, a hunter unwilling to startle his prey. And then he took my
     face gently between his hands and kissed me. I felt momentary panic; I couldn’t
     bring myself to kiss him back. But I allowed my lips to part for his, closed my eyes.
     Shock made my body alien to me. I felt his hands tighten around my waist, felt him
     propelling me backwards towards the bed. And all the while asilent
     voice reminded me that this was a trade. I was buying my husband his freedom. All I had
     to do was breathe. I kept my eyes closed, lay down against the impossible softness of
     the quilts. I felt his hands on my feet, pulling my shoes off, and then they were on my
     legs, sliding slowly up under my skirt. I could feel his eyes on my flesh as they rose
     higher.
    Édouard
.
    He kissed me. He kissed my mouth, my chest,
     my bare stomach, his breathing audible, lost in a world of his own imaginings. He kissed
     my knees, my stockinged thighs, letting his mouth rest against bare skin as if its
     proximity were a source of unbearable pleasure. ‘Sophie,’ he murmured.
     ‘Oh, Sophie …’
    And as his hands reached the