Page 128 of The Girl You Left Behind
And he was shuffling, half running toward me now, the guard quickening his stride behind him. And I stood frozen, still afraid that this was some terrible trick, that I would wake and find myself in the back of the truck, a boot beside my head.Please, God, You could not be so cruel.
And he stopped, a few feet from me. So thin, his face haggard, his beautiful hair shaven, scars upon his face. But, oh, God, his face.His face. My Édouard.It was too much. My face tilted heavenwards, my bag fell from my hands, and I sank toward the ground. And as I did, I felt his arms close around me.
“Sophie. My Sophie. What have they done to you?”
•••
Édith Béthune leans back in her wheelchair in the silent courtroom. A clerk brings her some water, and she nods her thanks. Even the reporters have stopped writing: They sit there, pens stilled, mouths half open.
“We knew nothing of what had happened to her. I believed her dead. A new information network sprang up several months after my mother was taken away, and we heard she was among a number of people to have died in the camps. Hélène cried for a week at the news.
“And then one morning, I happened to come down in the dawn, ready to start preparing for the day—I helped Hélène in the kitchen—and I saw a letter, pushed under the door of Le Coq Rouge. I was about to pick it up, but Hélène was behind me and snatched it away first.
“‘You didn’t see this,’ she said, and I was shocked, because she had never been so sharp with me before. Her face had gone completely white. ‘Do you hear me? You didn’t see this, Édith. You are not to tell anyone. Not even Aurélien. Especially not Aurélien.’
“I nodded, but I refused to move. I wanted to know what was in it. Hélène’s hands shook when she opened the letter. She stood against the bar, her face illuminated by the morning light, and her hands trembled so hard I was not sure how she could possibly read the words. And then she drooped, her hand pressed to her mouth, and she began to sob softly. ‘Oh, thank God, oh, thank God.’
“They were in Switzerland. They had false identity cards, given in lieu of ‘services to the German state,’ and were taken to a forest near the Swiss border. Sophie was so sick by then that Édouard had carried her the last fifteen miles to the checkpoint. They were informed by the guard who drove them that they were not to contact anybody in France, or they would risk exposure of those who had helped them. The letter was signed ‘Marie Leville.’”
She looks around her at the court. Liv has begun to cry, great silent sobs that she hadn’t known she was holding in.Alive, she says silently.She was alive. And they found each other.
“They remained in Switzerland. We knew that she could never return to St. Péronne, so high were feelings about the German occupation. If she had turned up, questions would have been asked. And, of course, by then I had grasped who had helped them escape together.”
“Who was this, madame?”
She purses her lips, as if even now it costs her to say it. “Kommandant Friedrich Hencken.”
“Forgive me,” says the judge. “It is an extraordinary tale. But I don’t understand how this relates to the loss of the painting.”
Édith Béthune composes herself. “Hélène did not show me the letter, but I knew it preoccupied her. She was jumpy when Aurélien was near, although he spent barely any time at Le Coq Rouge after Sophie left. It was as if he could not bear to be there. But then, two days later, when he had gone out and and the little ones slept in the next room, she called me into her bedroom. ‘Édith, I need you to do something for me.’
“She was seated on the floor, Sophie’s portrait supported by one hand. She stared at the letter in her other hand, as if checking something. She shook her head slightly, and then, with chalk, she wrote several words on the back of the painting. She sat back on her heels, as if confirming that she had got it right. She wrapped the painting in a blanket and handed it to me. ‘Herr Kommandant is shooting in the woods this afternoon. I need you to take this to him.’
“‘Never.’ I hated that man with a passion. He had been responsible for the loss of my mother.
“‘Do as I say. I need you to take this to Herr Kommandant.’
“‘No.’ I was not afraid of him then—he had already done the worst thing imaginable to me—but I would not spend a moment in his company.
“Hélène stared at me, and I think she could see how serious I was. She pulled me to her, and I have never seen her look more determined. ‘Édith, theKommandantis to have this painting. You and I may wish him dead, but we must observe...’ She hesitated. ‘Sophie’s wishes.’
“‘You take it.’
“‘I cannot. If I do the town will talk, and we cannot risk my own name being destroyed as my sister’s was. Besides, Aurélien will guess something is going on. And he must not know the truth. Nobody must know, for her safety and ours. Will you do it?’
“I had no choice. That afternoon, when Hélène gave me the signal, I took the painting under my arm and I walked down the alleyway, through the wasteland, and to the woods. It was heavy, and the frame dug into my underarm. He was there with another officer. The sight of them with their guns in their hands made my knees knock with fear. When he saw me, he ordered the other man away. I walked through the trees slowly. My feet were cold on the icy forest floor. He looked a little unsettled as I approached, and I remember thinking,Good. I hope I unsettle you forever.
“‘Did you wish to speak with me?’ he said.
“I didn’t want to hand it over. I didn’t want him to have a single thing. He had already taken the two most precious things in my life. I hated that man. And I think that was when I got the idea. ‘Aunt Hélène says I’m to give this to you.’
“He took the picture from me and unwrapped it. He glanced at it, uncertain, and then he turned it over. When he saw what was written on the back, something strange happened to his face. It softened, just for a moment, and his pale blue eyes appeared moist, as if he would cry with gladness.
“He thanked me. He turned it over to gaze upon Sophie’s face, then reversed it again, reading the words to himself. ‘Danke,’ he said softly, to her or me, I wasn’t sure.
“I couldn’t bear to see his happiness, his utter relief, when he had ruined any chance of happiness for me. I hated that man more than anyone. He had destroyed everything. And I heard my voice, clear as a bell in the still air. ‘Sophie died,’ I said. ‘She died after we received her instruction to give you the painting. She died of the Spanish flu in the camps.’
“He actually jolted with shock. ‘What?’
