Page 34 of The Girl You Left Behind
She bit her lip and turned to the black window. “This could all go so wrong.”
“It won’t.”
“You may well believe that. But you are impulsive by nature. And it is not only your future in the balance.”
I stood then. I wanted to walk round the table to my sister. I wanted to crouch at her side and hold her and be told that it would all be all right, that we would all be safe. But her expression told me there was nothing more to say, so I brushed down my skirts and, broom in hand, walked toward the kitchen door.
•••
Islept fitfully that night. I dreamed of Édouard, of his face contorted with disgust. I dreamed of us arguing, of myself trying again and again to convince him that I had only done what was right, while he turned away. In one dream he pushed the chair back from the table at which we sat arguing, and when I looked, he had no lower body: His legs and half of his torso were missing.There, he said to me.Are you satisfied now?
I woke sobbing, to find Édith gazing down at me, her eyes black, unfathomable. She reached out a hand and gently touched my wet cheek, as if in sympathy. I reached out and held her to me, and we lay there in silence, wrapped around each other as the dawn broke.
•••
Iwent through the day as if in a dream. The Germans came, without theKommandant, and we fed them. They were subdued; I found myself hoping, as I often did, that this meant some terrible news on their side. Hélène kept glancing at me as we worked; I could see her trying to decide what I was going to do. I served, poured wine, washed up, and accepted with a curt nod the thanks of those men who congratulated us on the meal. Then, as the last of them left, I scooped up Édith, who was asleep on the stairs again, and took her to my room. I laid her in the bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. I gazed at her for a moment, gently moving a strand of hair away from her cheek. She stirred, her face troubled even in sleep.
I watched to make sure she wouldn’t wake. Then I brushed my hair and pinned it, my movements slow and considered. As I stared at my reflection in the candlelight, something caught my eye. I turned and picked up a note that had been pushed under the door. I stared at the words, at Hélène’s handwriting.
Once it is done, it cannot be undone.
And then I thought of the dead boy prisoner in his oversized shoes, the raggle-taggle men who had made their way up the road even that afternoon. And it was suddenly very simple: There was no choice.
I placed the note in my hiding place, then made my way silently down the stairs. At the bottom I gazed at the portrait on the wall, then lifted it carefully from its hook and wrapped it in a shawl, so that none of it was exposed. I covered myself with another two shawls and stepped out into the dark. As I closed the door behind me, I heard my sister whisper from upstairs, her voice a warning bell:
“Sophie.”
9
After so many months spent inside under curfew it felt strange to be walking in the dark. The icy streets of the little town were deserted, the windows blank, the curtains unmoving. I walked along briskly in the shadows, a shawl pulled high over my head in the hope that, even if someone happened to look out, they would see only an unidentifiable shape hurrying through the back streets.
It was bitterly cold, but I barely felt it. I was numb. As I made the fifteen-minute journey to the outskirts of town, to the Fourrier farm where the Germans had billeted themselves almost a year earlier, I lost the ability to think. I was afraid that if I let myself think about where I was going, I would not be able to make my legs move, one foot placing itself in front of the other. If I thought, I would hear my sister’s warnings, the unforgiving voices of the other townspeople if they learned that I had been seen visiting Herr Kommandant under cover of night. I might hear my own fear.
Instead I muttered my husband’s name like a mantra:Édouard. I will free Édouard. I can do this.I held the painting tightly under my arm.
I had reached the outskirts of the town. I turned left where the dirt road became rough and rutted, the lane’s already pocked surface further destroyed by the military vehicles that passed up and down. My father’s old horse had broken a leg in one of these ruts the previous year: He had been ridden too hard by some German who hadn’t been looking where he was going. Aurélien had wept when he heard the news. Just another casualty of the occupation. These days, nobody wept for horses.
I will 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 that drenched my shoes and stockings, 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 toward them. Dim shapes moved ahead of me on the shoulders, 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 backward 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 rumors that the Germans brought in girls from outside the town. 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 women walking 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 toward 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.”
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 heissen Sie?” he asked when he returned.
