The Girl You Left Behind

  'What do you want to say?'

  'Just ask him. Please.'

  His face shows incredulity, but something in her expression convinces him. He leans forward, muttering to Angela Silver. She glances behind her at Liv, frowning, and after a short exchange, she stands and asks for permission to approach the bench. Christopher Jenks is invited to join them.

  As barristers and judge consult quietly, Liv feels her palms beginning to sweat. Her skin prickles. She glances around her at the packed courtroom. The air of quiet antagonism is almost palpable. Her hands tighten on the painting. Imagine you are Sophie, she tells herself. She would have done it.

  Finally the judge speaks.

  'Apparently Mrs Olivia Halston would like to address the court.' He glances at her from over the top of his spectacles. 'Go ahead, Mrs Halston.'

  She stands, and makes her way to the front of the court, still clutching the painting. She hears each footstep on the wooden floor, is acutely aware of all the eyes upon her. Henry, perhaps still fearful about the painting, stands a few feet from her.

  She takes a deep breath. 'I would like to say a few words about The Girl You Left Behind.' She pauses for a second, registering the surprise on the faces around her, and continues, her voice thin, wavering slightly in the silence. It seems to belong to someone else.

  'Sophie Lefevre was a brave, honourable woman. I think - I hope this has become clear through what's been heard in court.' She is vaguely aware of Janey Dickinson's face, scratching something in her notebook, the muttered boredom of the barristers. She closes her fingers around the frame, and forces herself to keep going.

  'My late husband, David Halston, was also a good man. A really good man. I believe now that, had he known Sophie's portrait, the painting he loved, had this - this history, he would have given it back long ago. My contesting this case has caused his good name to be removed from the building that was his life and his dream, and that is a source of immense regret to me, because that building - the Goldstein - should have been his memorial.'

  She sees the reporters look up, the ripple of interest that passes over their bench. Several of them consult, start scribbling.

  'This case - this painting - has pretty much destroyed what should have been his legacy, just as it destroyed Sophie's. In this way they have both been wronged.' Her voice begins to break. She glances around her. 'For that reason I would like it on record that the decision to fight was mine alone. If I have been mistaken, I'm so very sorry. That's all. Thank you.'

  She takes two awkward steps to the side. She sees the reporters scribbling furiously, one checking the spelling of Goldstein. Two solicitors on the bench are talking urgently. 'Nice move,' says Henry, softly, leaning in to her. 'You'd have made a good lawyer.'

  I did it, she tells herself silently. David is publicly linked to his building now, whatever the Goldsteins do.

  The judge asks for silence. 'Mrs Halston. Have you finished pre-empting my verdict?' he says wearily.

  Liv nods. Her throat has dried. Janey is whispering to her lawyer.

  'And this is the painting in question, is it?'

  'Yes.' She is still holding it tightly to her, like a shield.

  He turns to the court clerk. 'Can someone arrange for it to be placed in safe custody? I'm not entirely sure it should be sitting out here. Mrs Halston?'

  Liv holds out the painting to the court clerk. Just for a moment her fingers seem oddly reluctant to release it, as if her inner self has decided to ignore the instruction. When she finally lets go, the clerk stands there, briefly frozen, as if she has handed him something radioactive.

  I'm sorry, Sophie, she says, and, suddenly exposed, the girl's image stares back at her.

  Liv walks unsteadily back to her seat, the empty blanket balled under her arm, barely hearing the growing commotion around her. The judge is in conversation with both barristers. Several people make for the doors, evening-paper reporters perhaps, and above them the public gallery is alive with discussion. Henry touches her arm, muttering something about how she has done a good thing.

  She sits, and gazes down at her lap, at the wedding ring she twists round and round her finger, and wonders how it is possible to feel so empty.

  And then she hears it.

  'Excuse me?'

  It is repeated twice before it can be heard over the melee. She looks up, following the swivelling gaze of the people around her, and there, in the doorway, is Paul McCafferty.

  He is wearing a blue shirt and his chin is grey with stubble, his expression unreadable. He wedges the door open, and slowly pulls a wheelchair into the courtroom. He looks around, seeking her out, and suddenly it is just the two of them. You okay? he mouths, and she nods, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

  He calls again, just audible above the noise. 'Excuse me? Your Honour?'

  The gavel cracks against the desk like a gunshot. The court falls silent. Janey Dickinson stands and turns to see what is happening. Paul is pushing an elderly woman in a wheelchair down the central aisle of the court. She is impossibly ancient, hunched over like a shepherd's crook, her hands resting on a small bag.

  Another woman, neatly dressed in navy, hurries in behind Paul, consults with him in whispers. He gestures towards the judge.

  'My grandmother has some important information regarding this case,' the woman says. She speaks with a strong French accent, and as she walks down the centre aisle, she glances awkwardly to the people on either side.

  The judge throws up his hands. 'Why not?' he mutters audibly. 'Everyone else seems to want to have a say. Let's see if the cleaner would like to express her view, why don't we?'

  The woman waits, and he says, exasperated, 'Oh, for goodness' sake, Madame. Do approach the bench.'

  They exchange a few words. The judge calls over the two barristers, and the conversation extends.

  'What is this?' Henry keeps saying, beside Liv. 'What on earth is going on?'

  A hush settles over the court.

  'It appears we should hear what this woman has to say,' the judge says. He picks up his pen and leafs through his notes. 'I'm wondering if anybody here is going to be interested in something as mundane as an actual verdict.'

  The old woman's chair is wheeled round and positioned near the front of the court. She speaks her first words in French, and her granddaughter translates.

  'Before the future of the painting is decided, there is something you must know. This case is based on a false premise.' She pauses, stooping to hear the old woman's words, then straightens up again. 'The Girl You Left Behind was never stolen.'

  The judge leans forward a little. 'And how would you know this, Madame?'

  Liv lifts her face to look up at Paul. His gaze is direct, steady and oddly triumphant.

  The older woman lifts a hand, as if to dismiss her granddaughter. She clears her throat and speaks slowly and clearly, this time in English. 'Because I am the person who gave it to Kommandant Hencken. My name is Edith Bethune.'

  35

  1917

  I was unloaded some time after dawn. I don't know how long we had been on the road: fever had invaded me so my days and my dreams had become jumbled and I could no longer be sure whether I still existed, or whether, like a spectre, I flitted in and out of some other reality. When I closed my eyes, I saw my sister pulling up the blinds of the bar window, turning to me with a smile, the sun illuminating her hair. I saw Mimi laughing. I saw Edouard, his face, his hands, heard his voice in my ear, soft and intimate. I would reach out to touch him, but he would vanish, and I would wake on the floor of the truck, my eyes level with a soldier's boots, my head thumping painfully as we passed over every rut in the road.

  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 fro
m 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: 'STROHEN'. 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 Edouard 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 cafe 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, Edouard, 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 Peronne: 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. 'Edouard?' 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 Edouard. 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?'

  Edith Bethune 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. Helene 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 Helene in the kitchen - and I saw a letter, pushed under the door of Le Coq Rouge. I was about to pick it up, but Helene 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, Edith. You are not to tell anyone. Not even Aurelien. Especially not Aurelien."

  'I nodded, but I refused to move. I wanted to know what was in it. Helene's hands shook when she opened the letter. She stood against the bar, her face illuminated by the morning light, and her hands tr
embled 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 Edouard 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 Peronne, 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.'

  Edith Bethune composes herself. 'Helene did not show me the letter, but I knew it preoccupied her. She was jumpy when Aurelien 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. "Edith, 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.