The Girl You Left Behind

this?’
    ‘What?’
    He held up the lamp, and it was dimly
     illuminated in pale gold light: the portrait Édouard had painted of me when we were
     first married. There I was, in that first year, my hair thick and lustrous around my
     shoulders, my skin clear and blooming, gazing out with the self-possession of the
     adored. I had brought it down from its hiding place several weeks before, telling my
     sister I was damned if the Germans would decide what I should look at in my own
     home.
    He lifted the lamp a little higher so that
     he could see it more clearly.
Do not put it there, Sophie,
Hélène had
     warned.
It will invite trouble.
    When he finally turned to me, it was as if
     he had had to tear his eyes from it. He looked at my face, then back at the painting.
     ‘My husband painted it.’ I don’t know why I felt the need to tell him
     that.
    Perhaps it was the certainty of my righteous
     indignation. Perhaps it was the obvious difference between the girl in the picture and
     the girl who stood before him. Perhaps it was the weeping blonde child who stood at my
     feet. It is possible that even
Kommandants
, two years into this occupation,
     have become weary of harassing us for petty misdemeanours.
    He looked at the painting a moment longer,
     then at his feet.
    ‘I think we have made ourselves clear,
     Madame. Our conversation is not finished. But I will not disturb you further
     tonight.’
    He caught the flash of surprise on my face,
     barely suppressed, and I saw that it satisfied something in him. It was perhaps enough
     for him to know I had believed myself doomed. He was smart, this man, and subtle. I
     would have to be wary.
    ‘Men.’
    His soldiers turned, blindly obedient as
     ever, and walked out towards their vehicle, their uniforms silhouetted against the
     headlights. I followed him and stood just outside the door. The last I heard of his
     voice was the order to the driver to make for the town.
    We waited as the military vehicle travelled
     back down the road, its headlights feeling their way along the pitted surface.
     Hélène had begun to shake. She scrambled to her feet, her hand white-knuckled
     at her brow, her eyes tightly shut. Aurélien stood awkwardly beside me, holding
     Mimi’s hand, embarrassed by his childish tears. I waited for the last sounds of
     the engine to die away. It whined over the hill, as if it, too, were acting under
     protest.
    ‘Are you hurt, Aurélien?’ I
     touched his head. Flesh wounds. And bruises. What kind of men attacked an unarmed
     boy?
    He flinched. ‘It didn’t
     hurt,’ he said. ‘They didn’t frighten me.’
    ‘I thought he would arrest you,’
     my sister said. ‘I thought he would arrest us all.’ I was afraid when she
     looked like that: as if she were teetering on the edge of some vast abyss. She wiped her
     eyes and forced a smile as she crouched to hug her daughter. ‘Silly Germans. They
     gave us all a fright, didn’t they? Silly Maman for being frightened.’
    The child watched her mother, silent and
     solemn. Sometimes I wondered if I would ever see Mimi laugh again.
    ‘I’m sorry. I’m all right
     now,’ she went on. ‘Let’s all go inside. Mimi, we have a little milk I
     will warm for you.’ She wiped her hands on her bloodied gown, and held her hands
     towards me for the baby. ‘You want me to take Jean?’
    I had started to tremble convulsively, as if
     I had only just realized how afraid I should have been. My legs felt watery, their
     strength seeping into the cobblestones. I felt a desperate urge to sit down.
     ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose you should.’
    My sister reached out, then gave a small
     cry. Nestling in the blankets, swaddled neatly so that it was barely exposed to the
     night air, was the pink, hairy snout of the piglet.
    ‘Jean is asleep upstairs,’ I
     said. I thrust a hand at the wall to keep myself upright.
    Aurélien looked over her shoulder. They
     all stared at it.
    ‘
Mon Dieu
.’
    ‘Is it dead?’
    ‘Chloroformed. I remembered Papa had a
     bottle in his study, from his butterfly-collecting days. I think it will wake up. But
     we’re going to have to find somewhere else to keep it for when they return. And
     you know they will return.’
    Aurélien smiled then, a rare, slow
     smile of delight. Hélène stooped to show Mimi the comatose little pig, and
     they grinned. Hélène kept touching its snout, clamping a hand over her face,
     as if she couldn’t believe what she was