Page 35 of The Girl You Left Behind
“I am Madame Lefèvre,” I whispered.
He gestured to my shawl, which I pulled briefly from my head, exposing my face. He waved toward a door across the courtyard. “Diese Tür. Erster Stock. Dann die grüne Tür auf der rechten Seite.”
“What?” I said. “I don’t understand.”
He grew impatient again. “Da, da.” He gestured, taking my elbow and propelling me forward roughly. I was shocked that he would treat a visitor to theKommandantin such a way. And then it dawned on me: My protestations that I was married were meaningless. I was simply another woman, calling on Germans after dark. I was glad that he could not see the color that sprang to my cheeks. I wrenched my elbow from his grasp and walked stiffly toward the small building on the right.
•••
It was not hard to see which room was his: Light crept only from under one door. I hesitated outside, then knocked and said quietly, “Herr Kommandant?”
The sound of footsteps, the door opened, and I took a small step back. He was out of his uniform, dressed in a striped, collarless shirt and braces, a book dangling from one hand, as if I had interrupted him. He looked at me, half smiled, and stepped back to allow me in.
The room was large, thick with beams, and its floorboards were covered with rugs, several of which I thought I recognized from the homes of my neighbors. There was a small table and chairs, a military chest, its brass corners glowing in the light of two acetylene lamps, and a coat hook, from which hung his uniform. A large easy chair sat by a generously stacked fire, its warmth evident even from the other side of the room. In the corner was a bed, with two thick quilts. I glanced at it and looked away.
“Here.” He was standing behind me, lifting the shawls from my back. “Let me take these.”
I allowed him to remove them and hang them on the coat hook, still clutching the painting to my chest. Even as I stood almost paralyzed, I felt ashamed of my shabby clothing. We could not wash clothes often in this cold: Wool took weeks to dry, or simply froze into rigid shapes outside.
“It’s bitter out,” he observed. “I can feel it on your clothes.”
“Yes.” My voice, when it emerged, sounded unlike my own.
“This is a hard winter. And I think we have some months of it to come yet. Would you like a drink?” He moved to a small table and poured two glasses of wine from a carafe. I took one from him wordlessly, still shivering from my walk.
“You can put the package down,” he said.
I had forgotten I was holding it. I lowered it to the floor.
“Please,” he said. “Please sit.” He seemed almost irritated when I hesitated, as if my nervousness were an insult. I sat on one of the wooden chairs, one hand resting against the frame of the painting. I don’t know why I found it a comfort.
“I did not come to eat at the hotel tonight. I thought about what you said, that you are already considered a traitor for our presence in your home. I do not wish to cause you more problems, Sophie... more than we already cause you by our occupation.”
I didn’t know what to say to this. I took a sip of wine. His eyes kept darting to mine, as if he were waiting for some response.
From across the courtyard we could hear singing. I wondered whether the girls were with the men, then who they were, which villages they had come from. Would they, too, be paraded through the streets as criminals afterward for what they had done?
“Are you hungry?” He gestured toward a small tray of bread and cheese. I shook my head. I had had no appetite all day.
“It’s not quite up to the normal standards of your cooking, I admit. I was thinking the other day of that duck dish you made last month. With the orange. Perhaps you would do that for us again.” He kept talking. “But our supplies are dwindling. I found myself dreaming of a Christmas cake calledStollen.Do you have it in France?”
I shook my head again.
We sat on each side of the fire. I felt electrified, as if each part of me were fizzing, transparent. I felt as if he could see through my skin. He knew everything. He held everything. I listened to the distant voices, and every now and then my presence there hit me.I am alone with aKommandant, in the German barracks. In a room with a bed.
“Did you think about what I said?” I blurted out.
He stared at me for a minute. “You would not allow us the pleasure of a small conversation?”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry. But I must know.”
He took a sip of wine. “I have thought of little else.”
“Then...” My breath stalled in my chest. I leaned over, put my glass down, and unwrapped the painting. I placed it against the chair, lit by the fire, so that he could see it in its finest aspect. “Will you take it? Will you take it in exchange for my husband’s freedom?”
The air in the room grew still. He didn’t look at the picture. His eyes stayed on mine, unblinking, unreadable.
“If I could convey to you what this painting means to me... if you knew how it had kept me going in the darkest of days... you would know I could not offer it lightly. But I... would not mind the painting going to you, Herr Kommandant.”
