The Girl You Left Behind (54 page)

I saw Liliane.

Her body was out there, somewhere on the
Hannover road, where they had tossed it, cursing, as if she were a sandbag. I had spent
the hours since speckled with her blood and worse. My clothes were coloured with it. I
tasted it on my lips. It lay congealed and sticky on the floor from which I no longer
had the energy to raise myself. I no longer felt the lice that ate me. I was numb. I
felt no more alive than Liliane’s corpse.

The soldier opposite sat as far away from me
as possible,
furious at the staining of his uniform, at the
dressing-down he had received from his superior for Liliane’s theft of his gun,
his face turned to the canvas sheeting that let in air from outside. I saw his look: it
spoke of revulsion. I was no longer a human being to him. I tried to remember when I had
been more than a thing, when even in a town full of Germans I had possessed dignity,
commanded some respect, but it was hard. My whole world seemed to have become this
truck. This hard metal floor. This woollen sleeve, with its dark red stain.

The truck rumbled and lurched through the
night, stopping briefly. I drifted in and out of consciousness, woken only by pain or
the ferocity of my fever. I breathed in the cold air, cigarette smoke, heard the men
speak in the front of the cab and wondered if I would ever hear a French voice
again.

And then, at dawn, it juddered to a halt. I
opened my sore eyes, unable to move, listening to the young soldier scrambling out of
the truck. I heard him stretch with a groan, the click of a cigarette lighter, German
voices in low conversation. I heard the vigorous, indelicate sound of men relieving
themselves, birdsong, and the rustle of leaves.

I knew then that I would die there, and in
truth I no longer cared.

My whole body glowed with pain; my skin
prickling with fever, my joints aching, my head thick. The canvas flap at the rear was
lifted and the back opened. A guard ordered me out. I could barely move, but he pulled
at my arm, as one would a recalcitrant child. My body was so light that I almost flew
across the back of the truck.

The morning was hung with mist, and through
it I could see a barbed-wire fence, the vast gates. Above them, it said:
‘STRÖHEN’. I knew what it was.

Another guard motioned at me to stay where I
was, and walked over to a sentry box. There was a discussion, and one of them leaned out
and looked at me. Beyond the gates I could see row upon row of long factory sheds. It
was a bleak, featureless place with an air of misery and futility that was almost
palpable. A watchtower with a crow’s nest stood at each corner, to prevent escape.
They needn’t have worried.

Do you know how it feels to resign yourself
to your fate? It is almost welcome. There was to be no more pain, no more fear, no more
longing. It is the death of hope that comes as the greatest relief. Soon, I could hold
Édouard to me. We would be joined in the next life, because I knew surely that if
God was good He would not be so cruel as to deprive us of this consolation.

I became dimly aware of a fierce discussion
in the sentry box. A man emerged and demanded my papers. I was so weak it took me three
attempts to pull them from my pocket. He motioned to me to hold up my identity card. As
I was crawling with lice, he did not want to touch me.

He ticked something on his list and barked
in German to the guard holding me. They had a short conversation. It faded in and out
and I was no longer sure whether it was them lowering their voices or my mind betraying
me. I was as mild and obedient as a lamb now; a thing, ready to go where they instructed
me. I no longer wished to think. I no longer wished to imagine what new horrors
lay ahead. Fever buzzed in my head and my eyes burned. I was so
weary. I heard Liliane’s voice and knew distantly that while I lived I should
still be afraid:
You have no idea what they will do to us.
But somehow I could
not rouse myself to fear. If the guard had not been beside me, holding my arm, I might
just have dropped to the ground.

The gates opened to let a vehicle out, and
closed again. I drifted in and out of time. My eyes closed and I had a brief vision of
sitting in a café in Paris, my head tilted back, feeling the sun on my face. My
husband was seated beside me, his roar of laughter filling my ears, his huge hand
reaching for mine on the table.

Oh, Édouard, I wept silently, as I
shivered in the chill dawn air. I pray you escaped this pain. I pray it was easy for
you.

I was pulled forward again. Someone was
shouting at me. I stumbled on my skirts, somehow still clutching my bag. The gates
opened again and I was shoved roughly forwards into the camp. As I reached the second
sentry post, the guard stopped me again.

Just put me in the shed. Just let me lie
down
.

I was so tired. I saw Liliane’s hand,
the precise, premeditated way she had lifted the gun to the side of her head. Her eyes,
locked on mine in the last seconds of her life. They were limitless black holes, windows
on an abyss.
She feels nothing now
,
I told myself, and some still
functioning part of me acknowledged that what I felt was envy.

As I put my card back into my pocket my hand
brushed against the jagged edge of the glass fragment, and I felt a
flicker of recognition. I could bring that point up to my throat. I knew the vein,
just how much pressure to apply. I remembered how the pig had buckled in St
Péronne: one brisk swipe and his eyes had closed in what seemed like a quiet
ecstasy. I stood there and let the thought solidify in my head. I could do it before
they even realized what I had done. I could free myself.

You have no idea what they will do to us.

My fingers closed. And then I heard it.

Sophie
.

And then I knew that release was coming. I
let the shard fall from my fingers. So this was it, the sweet voice of my husband
leading me home. I almost smiled then, so great was my relief. I swayed a little as I
let it echo through me.

Sophie.

A German hand spun me round and pushed me
back towards the gate. Confused, I stumbled and glanced behind me. And then I saw the
guard coming through the mist. In front of him was a tall, stooped man, clutching a
bundle to his stomach. I squinted, aware there was something familiar about him. But the
light was behind him and I could not see.

Sophie.

I tried to focus, and suddenly the world
grew still, everything silent around me. The Germans were mute, the engines stopped, the
trees themselves ceased whispering. And I could see that the prisoner was limping
towards me, his silhouette strange, his shoulders skin and bone, but his stride
determined, as if a magnet were pulling him to me. And I began to tremble convulsively,
as if my body knew
before I did. ‘Édouard?’ My voice
emerged as a croak. I could not believe it. I dared not believe it.

‘Edouard?’

And he was shuffling, half running towards
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 towards 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 received news that 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
risk exposure of those who had helped them. The letter was signed “Marie
Leville”.’

She looked around her at the court.

‘They remained in Switzerland. We knew
that she could never return to St Péronne, so high was feeling 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 as 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 hand, as
if checking something, shook her head slightly, and then, with chalk, she inscribed
several words on the back. She sat back on her heels, as if confirming that she had got
it right. She wrapped it carefully in a blanket and handed it over 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, the
Kommandant
is 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 cold on the icy forest floor. He looked
a little unsettled as I approached, and I remember thinking, Good. I hope I unsettle you
for ever.

‘“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.

‘“
Danke
,” he said
softly. “
Dankeschön
.”’

‘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?”

‘I don’t know where it came
from. I spoke fluently, without fear of what might result. “She died. Because of
being taken away. Just after she sent the message to give this to you.”

‘“Are you sure?” His voice
cracked. “I mean there may have been reports –”