The Girl You Left Behind

  His gaze settles on the image, his eyes sunken and rheumy, impenetrable, as if they carry the joys and sorrows of the ages. He blinks, his wrinkled eyelids closing at half-speed, and it is like watching some strange prehistoric creature. Finally he lifts his head. 'I cannot tell you. We were not encouraged to speak of her.'

  Liv glances at Mo.

  'What?'

  'Sophie's name ... was not spoken in our house.'

  Liv blinks. 'But - but she was your aunt, yes? She was married to a great artist.'

  'My father never spoke of it.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'Not everything that happens in a family is explicable.'

  The room falls silent. Mo looks awkward. Liv tries to shift the subject. 'So ... do you know much about Monsieur Lefevre?'

  'No. But I did acquire two of his works. After Sophie disappeared some paintings were sent to the hotel from a dealer in Paris; this was some time before I was born. As Sophie was not there, Helene kept two, and gave two to my father. He told her he didn't want them, but after he died, I found them in our attic. It was quite a surprise when I discovered what they were worth. One I gave to my daughter, who lives in Nantes. The other I sold some years ago. It pays for me to live here. This ... is a nice place to live. So - maybe I think my relationship with my aunt Sophie was a good one, despite everything.'

  His expression softens briefly.

  Liv leans forward. 'Despite everything?'

  The old man's expression is unreadable. She wonders, briefly, whether he has nodded off. But then he starts to speak. 'There was talk ... gossip ... in St Peronne that my aunt was a collaborator. This was why my father said we must not discuss her. Easier to act as if she did not exist. Neither my aunt nor my father ever spoke of her when I was growing up.'

  'Collaborator? Like a spy?'

  He waits a moment before answering. 'No. That her relationship with the German occupiers was not ... correct.' He looks up at the two women. 'It was very painful for our family. If you did not live through these times, if your family did not come from a small town, you cannot understand how it was for us. No letters, no pictures, no photographs. From the moment she was taken away, my aunt ceased to exist for my father. He was ...' he sighs '... an unforgiving man. Unfortunately the rest of her family decided to wipe her from our history too.'

  'Even her sister?'

  'Even Helene.'

  Liv is stunned. For so long, she has thought of Sophie as one of life's survivors, her expression triumphant, her adoration of her husband written on her face. She struggles to reconcile her Sophie with the image of this unloved, discarded woman.

  There is a world of pain in the old man's long, weary breath. Liv feels suddenly guilty for having made him revisit it. 'I'm so sorry,' she says, not knowing what else to say. She sees now they will get nothing here. No wonder Paul McCafferty had not bothered to come.

  The silence stretches. Mo surreptitiously eats a macaroon. When Liv looks up, Philippe Bessette is gazing at her. 'Thank you for seeing us, Monsieur.' She touches his arm. 'I find it hard to associate the woman you describe with the woman I see. I ... have her portrait. I have always loved it.'

  He lifts his head a few degrees. He looks at her steadily as Mo translates.

  'I honestly thought she looked like someone who knew she was loved. She seemed to have spirit.'

  The nursing staff appear in the doorway, watching. Behind her a woman with a trolley looks in impatiently. The smell of food seeps through the doorway.

  She stands to leave. But as she does so, Bessette holds up a hand. 'Wait,' he says, gesturing towards a bookshelf with an index finger. 'The one with the red cover.'

  Liv runs her fingers along the spines until he nods. She pulls a battered folder from the bookshelf.

  'These are my aunt Sophie's papers, her correspondence. There is a little about her relationship with Edouard Lefevre, things they discovered hidden around her room. Nothing about your painting, as I recall. But it may give you a clearer picture of her. At a time when her name was being blackened, it revealed my aunt to me ... as human. A wonderful human being.'

  Liv opens the folder carefully. Postcards, fragile letters, little drawings are tucked within it. She sees looping handwriting on a brittle piece of paper, the signature Sophie. Her breath catches in her throat.

  'I found it in my father's things after he died. He told Helene he had burned it, burned everything. She went to her grave thinking everything of Sophie was destroyed. That was the kind of man he was.'

  She can barely tear her eyes from them. 'I will copy them and send this straight back to you,' she stammers.

  He gives a dismissive wave of his hand. 'What use do I have for them? I can no longer read.'

  'Monsieur - I have to ask. I don't understand. Surely the Lefevre family would have wanted to see all of this.'

  'Yes.'

  She and Mo exchange looks. 'Then why did you not give it to them?'

  A veil seems to lower itself over his eyes. 'It was the first time they visited me. What did I know about the painting? Did I have anything to help them? Questions, questions ...' He shakes his head, his voice lifting. 'They cared nothing for Sophie before. Why should they profit at her expense now? Edouard's family care for nobody but themselves. It is all money, money, money. I would be glad if they lost their case.'

  His expression is mulish. The conversation is apparently closed. The nurse hovers at the door, signalling mutely with her watch. Liv knows they are on the point of outstaying their welcome, but she has to ask one more thing. She reaches for her coat.

  'Monsieur - do you know anything about what happened to your aunt Sophie after she left the hotel? Did you ever find out?'

  He glances down at her picture and rests his hand there. His sigh emanates from somewhere deep within him.

  'She was arrested and taken by the Germans to the reprisal camps. And, like so many others, from the day she left, my family never saw or heard of her again.'

  23

  1917

  The cattle truck whined and jolted its way along roads pocked with holes, occasionally veering on to the grassy verges to avoid those that were too large to cross. A fine rain muffled sound, making the wheels spin in the loose earth, the engine roaring its protest and sending up clods of mud as the wheels struggled for purchase.

  After two years in the quiet confines of our little town, I was shocked to see what life - and destruction - lay beyond it. Just a few miles from St Peronne, whole villages and towns were unrecognizable, shelled into oblivion, the shops and houses just piles of grey stone and rubble. Great craters sat in their midst, filled with water, their green algae and plant life hinting at their long standing, the townspeople mute as they watched us pass. I went through three towns without being able to identify where we were, and slowly I grasped the scale of what had been taking place around us.

  I stared out through the swaying tarpaulin flap, watching the columns of mounted soldiers pass on skeletal horses, the grey-faced men hauling stretchers, their uniforms dark and wet, the swaying trucks from which wary faces looked out, with blank, fathomless stares. Occasionally the driver stopped the truck and exchanged a few words with another driver, and I wished I knew some German so that I might have some idea of where I was going. The shadows were faint, given the rain, but we seemed to be moving south-east. The direction of Ardennes, I told myself, struggling to keep my breathing under control. I had decided the only way to control the visceral fear that kept threatening to choke me was to reassure myself I was heading towards Edouard.

  In truth, I felt numb. Those first few hours in the back of the truck I could not have formed a sentence if you had asked me. I sat, the harsh voices of my townspeople still ringing in my ears, my brother's expression of disgust in my mind, and my mouth dried to dust with the truth of what had just taken place. I saw my sister, her face contorted with grief, felt the fierce grip of Edith's little arms as she attempted to hang on to me. My fear in those moments was
so intense that I thought I might disgrace myself. It came in waves, making my legs shake, my teeth chatter. And then, staring out at the ruined towns, I saw that for many the worst had already happened, and I told myself to be calm: this was merely a necessary stage in my return to Edouard. This was what I had asked for. I had to believe that.

  An hour outside St Peronne the guard opposite me had folded his arms, tilted his head back against the wall of the truck and slept. He had evidently decided I was no threat, or perhaps he was so exhausted that he could not fight the rocking motion of the vehicle enough to stay awake. As the fear crept up on me again, like some predatory beast, I closed my eyes, pressed my hands together on my bag, and thought of my husband ...

  Edouard was chuckling to himself.

  'What?' I entwined my arms around his neck, letting his words fall softly against my skin.

  'I am thinking of you last night, chasing Monsieur Farage around his own counter.'

  Our debts had grown too great. I had dragged Edouard round the bars of Pigalle, demanding money from those who owed him, refusing to leave until we were paid. Farage had refused and then insulted me, so Edouard, usually slow to anger, had shot out a huge fist and hit him. He had been out cold even before he struck the floor. We had left the bar in uproar, tables overturned, glasses flying about our ears. I had refused to run, but picked up my skirt and walked out in an orderly fashion, pausing to take the exact amount Edouard was owed from the till.

  'You are fearless, little wife.'

  'With you beside me, I am.'

  I must have dozed off, and woke as the truck jolted to a halt, my head smacking against the roof brace. The guard was outside the vehicle, talking to another soldier. I peered out, rubbing my head, stretching my cold, stiff limbs. We were in a town, but the railway station had a new German name that was unrecognizable to me. The shadows had lengthened and the light dimmed, suggesting that evening was not far away. The tarpaulin lifted, and a German soldier's face appeared. He seemed surprised to find only me inside. He shouted, and gestured that I should get out. When I didn't move swiftly enough, he hauled at my arm so that I stumbled, my bag falling to the wet ground.

  It had been two years since I had seen so many people in one place. The station, which comprised two platforms, was a teeming mass, mostly soldiers and prisoners as far as I could see. Their armbands and striped, grubby clothing marked out the prisoners. They kept their heads down. I found myself scanning their faces, as I was thrust through them, looking for Edouard, but I was pushed too quickly and they became a blur.

  'Hier! Hier!' A door slid sideways and I was shoved into a freight carriage, its boarded sides revealing a shadowy mass of bodies inside. I fought to keep hold of my bag and heard the door slam behind me as my eyes adjusted to the dim light.

  Inside there were two narrow wooden benches along each side, nearly every inch covered with bodies. More occupied the floor. At the edges some lay, their heads resting on small bundles of what might have been clothing. Everything was so filthy it was hard to tell. The air was thick with the foul smells of those who had not been able to wash, or worse, for some time.

  'Francais?' I said, into the silence. Several faces looked blankly at me. I tried again.

  'Ici,' said a voice near the back. I began to make my way carefully down the length of the carriage, trying not to disturb those who were sleeping. I heard a voice that might have been Russian. I trod on someone's hair, and was cursed. Finally I reached the rear of the carriage. A shaven-headed man was looking at me. His face was scarred, as if with some recent pox, and his cheekbones jutted from his face like those of a skull.

  'Francais?' he said.

  'Yes,' I replied. 'What is this? Where are we going?'

  'Where are we going?' He regarded me with astonishment, and then, when he grasped that my question was serious, laughed mirthlessly.

  'Tours, Amiens, Lille. How would I know? They keep us on some endless cross-country chase so that none of us knows where we are.'

  I was about to speak again when I saw the shape on the floor. A black coat so familiar that at first I dared not look closer. I stepped forward, past the man, and knelt down. 'Liliane?' I could see her face, still bruised, under what remained of her hair. She opened one eye, as if she did not trust her ears. 'Liliane! It's Sophie.'

  She gazed at me. 'Sophie,' she whispered. Then she lifted a hand and touched mine. 'Edith?' Even in her frail state I could hear the fear in her voice.

  'She is with Helene. She is safe.'

  The eye closed.

  'Are you sick?' It was then I saw the blood, dried, around her skirt. Her deathly pallor.

  'Has she been like this for long?'

  The Frenchman shrugged, as if he had seen too many bodies like Liliane's to feel anything as distinct as compassion now. 'She was here some hours ago when we came aboard.'

  Her lips were chapped, her eyes sunken. 'Does anyone have water?' I called. A few faces turned to me.

  The Frenchman said pityingly, 'You think this is a buffet car?'

  I tried again, my voice lifting. 'Does anyone have a sip of water?' I could see faces turning to each other.

  'This woman risked her life to bring information to our town. If anyone has water, please, just a few drops.' A murmur went through the carriage. 'Please! For the love of God!' And then, astonishingly, minutes later, an enamel bowl was passed along. It had a half-inch of what might have been rainwater in the bottom. I called out my thanks and lifted Liliane's head gently, tipping the precious drops into her mouth.

  The Frenchman seemed briefly animated. 'We should hold cups, bowls, anything out of the carriage if possible, while it rains. We do not know when we will next receive food or water.'

  Liliane swallowed painfully. I positioned myself on the floor so that she could rest against me. With a squeal and the harsh grinding of metal on rails, the train moved off into the countryside.

  I could not tell you how long we stayed on that train. It moved slowly, stopping frequently and without obvious reason. I stared out through the gap in the splintered boards, watching the endless movement of troops, prisoners and civilians through my battered country, holding the dozing Liliane in my arms. The rain grew heavier, and there were murmurs of satisfaction as the occupants passed round water they had gleaned. I was cold, but glad of the rain and the low temperature: I could not imagine how hellish this carriage might become in the heat when the odours would worsen.

  As the hours stretched, the Frenchman and I talked. I asked about the number-plate on his cap, the red stripe on his jacket, and he told me he had come from the ZAB - the Zivilarbeiter Battalione, prisoners who were used for the very worst of jobs, shipped to the front, exposed to Allied fire. He told me of the trains he saw each week, packed with boys, women and young girls, criss-crossing the country to the Somme, to Escaut and Ardennes, to work as slave labour for the Germans. Tonight, he said, we would lodge in ruined barracks, factories or schools in evacuated villages. He did not know whether we would be taken to a prison camp or a work battalion.

  'They keep us weak through lack of food, so that we will not try to escape. Most are now grateful merely to stay alive.' He asked if I had food in my bag and was disappointed when I had to say no. I gave him a handkerchief that Helene had packed, feeling obliged to give him something. He looked at its laundered cotton freshness as if he were holding spun silk. Then he handed it back. 'Keep it,' he said, and his face closed. 'Use it for your friend. What did she do?'

  When I told him of her bravery, the lifeline of information she had brought to our town, he looked at her anew, as if he were no longer seeing a body but a human being. I told him I was seeking news of my husband, and that he had been sent to Ardennes. The Frenchman's face was grave. 'I spent several weeks there. You know that there has been typhoid? I will pray for you that your husband has survived.' I swallowed back a lump of fear.

  'Where are the rest of your battalion?' I asked him, trying to change the subject. The train slowe
d and we passed another column of trudging prisoners. Not a man looked up at the passing train, as if they were each too ashamed of their enforced slavery. I scanned the face of each one, fearful that Edouard might be among them.

  It was a moment before he spoke. 'I am the only one left.'

  Several hours after dark we drew into a siding. The doors slid open noisily and German voices yelled at us to get out. Bodies unfolded themselves wearily from the floor, clutching enamel bowls, and made their way along a disused track. Our path was lined with German infantry, prodding us into line with their guns. I felt like an animal to be herded so, as if I were no longer human. I recalled the desperate escape of the young prisoner in St Peronne, and suddenly had an inkling of what had made him run, despite the knowledge that he was almost certain to fail.

  I held Liliane close to me, supporting her under the arms. She walked slowly, too slowly. A German stepped behind us and kicked at her.

  'Leave her!' I protested, and his rifle butt shot out and cracked my head so that I stumbled briefly to the ground. I felt hands pulling me up, and then I was moving forward again, dazed, my sight blurred. When I put my hand to my temple, it came away sticky with blood.

  We were shepherded into a huge, empty factory. The floor crunched with broken glass, and a stiff night breeze whistled through the windows. In the distance, we could hear the boom of the big guns, even see the odd flash of an explosion. I peered out, wondering where we were, but our surroundings were blanketed in the black of night.

  'Here,' a voice said, and the Frenchman was between us, supporting us, moving us towards a corner. 'Look, there is food.'

  Soup, served by other prisoners from a long table with two huge urns. I had not eaten since early that morning. It was watery, filled with indistinct shapes, but my stomach constricted with anticipation. The Frenchman filled his enamel bowl, and a cup that Helene had put into my bag, and with three pieces of black bread, we sat in a corner and ate, giving sips to Liliane (the fingers of one hand were broken so she could not use them), wiping the bowl with our fingers to retrieve every last trace.

  'There is not always food. Perhaps our luck is changing,' the Frenchman said, but without conviction. He disappeared towards the table with the urns where a crowd was already congregating in the hope of more, and I cursed myself for not being swift enough to go. I was afraid to leave Liliane, even for a moment. Minutes later he returned, the bowl filled. He stood beside us, then handed it to me and pointed at Liliane. 'Here,' he said. 'She needs strength.'