The Girl You Left Behind

innermost part
     of my thighs, some treacherous part of me sparked into life, a warmth that was nothing
     to do with the fire. Some part of me divorced itself from my heart, and let slip its
     hunger for touch, for the weight of a body against my own. As his lips traced my skin, I
     shifted slightly and out of nowhere a moan escaped my mouth. But the urgency of his
     response, the quickening of his breath on my face, quelled it as fast as it was born. My
     skirts were pushed up, my blouse pulled from my chest, and as I felt his mouth on my
     breast, I found myself turning, like some mythical figure, to stone.
    German lips. German hands.
    He was on top of me now, his weight pinning
     me to the bed. I could feel his hands tugging at my underclothes, desperate to get
     inside them. He pushed my knee to one side, half collapsing on my chest in his
     desperation. I felthim hard, unyielding, against my leg. Something
     ripped. And then, with a little gasp, he was inside me, and my eyes were tight shut, my
     jaw clenched to stop myself crying out in protest.
    In. In. In.
I could hear the
     hoarseness of his breathing in my ear, feel the faint sheen of his sweat against my
     skin, the buckle of his belt against my thigh. My body moved, propelled by the urgency
     of his.
Oh, God, what have I done? In. In. In.
My fists closed around two
     handfuls of quilt, my thoughts jumbled and transient. Some distant part of me resented
     their soft, heavy warmth more than almost anything. Stolen from someone. Like they stole
     everything. Occupied. I was occupied. I disappeared. I was in a street in Paris, rue
     Soufflot. The sun was shining, and around me, as I walked, I could see Parisian women in
     their finery, the pigeons strutting through the dappled shadows of the trees. My
     husband’s arm was linked through mine. I wanted to say something to him but
     instead I let out a small sob. The scene stilled, and evaporated. And then I was aware
     dimly that it had stopped. The pushing slowed, then stopped. Everything had stopped. The
     thing. His thing was no longer inside me but soft, curling apologetically against my
     groin. I opened my eyes, and found myself looking straight into his.
    The
Kommandant
’s face, inches
     from my own, was flushed, his expression agonized. I stopped breathing as I grasped his
     predicament. I didn’t know what to do. But his eyes locked on mine and he knew
     that I knew. He pushed himself roughly backwards so that his weight was off me.
    ‘You –’ he began.
    ‘What?’ I was conscious of my
     exposed breasts, my skirt bunched around my waist.
    ‘Your
     expression … so …’
    He stood, and I averted my eyes while I
     heard him pull up his trousers and fasten them. He stared rigidly away from me, one hand
     on the top of his head.
    ‘I – I’m sorry,’ I began.
     I wasn’t sure what I was apologizing for. ‘What did I do?’
    ‘You – you – I didn’t want
     that!’ He gestured towards me. ‘Your face …’
    ‘I don’t understand.’ I
     was almost angry then, accosted by the unfairness of it. Did he have any idea what I had
     endured? Did he know what it had cost me to let him touch me? ‘I did what you
     wanted!’
    ‘I didn’t want you like that! I
     wanted …’ he said, his hand lifted in frustration. ‘I wanted
this
! I wanted the girl in the painting!’
    We both stared in silence at the portrait.
     The girl gazed steadily back at us, her hair around her neck, her expression
     challenging, glorious, sexually replete. My face.
    I pulled my skirts over my legs, clutched my
     blouse around my neck. When I spoke, my voice was thick, tremulous. ‘I gave
     you … Herr Kommandant … everything I was capable of
     giving.’
    His eyes became opaque, a sea that had
     frozen. The tic jumped in his jaw, a juddering pulse. ‘Get out,’ he said
     quietly.
    I blinked.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I stammered,
     when I realized I had heard him correctly. ‘If … I
     can … ’
    ‘GET OUT!’ he roared. He grabbed
     my shoulder, hisfingers digging into my flesh, and wrenched me
     across the room.
    ‘My shoes … my
     shawls!’
    ‘OUT, DAMN YOU!’ I had time only
     to grab my painting, and then I was propelled out of the door, stumbling to my knees at
     the top of the stairs, my mind still struggling to grasp what was happening. There was
     the sound of a tremendous crash behind the door. And then another, this time accompanied
     by the sound of splintering glass. I