فصل 09

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 backstreets.

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 sisters warnings, the unforgiving voices of the other townspeople if it were to emerge that I had been seen visiting Herr Kommandant under cover of night. I might hear my own fear.

Instead I muttered my husbands name like a mantra Édouard. I will free Édouard. I can do this. I held the painting tight under my arm.

I had reached the outskirts of the town. I turned left where the dirt road became rough and rutted, the lanes already pocked surface further destroyed by the military vehicles that passed up and down. My fathers old horse had broken a leg in one of these ruts the previous year he had been ridden too hard by some German who hadnt been looking where he was going. Aurélien had wept when he heard the news. Just another blameless 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 so that my shoes and stockings were drenched 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 towards them. Dim shapes moved ahead of me on the verges, 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 backwards 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 rumours that the Germans brought in girls from outside the town until now I had believed them to be just that. 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 mens 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 towards 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 heist? he said, when he returned.

I am Madame Lefèvre, I whispered.

He gestured to my shawl, which I pulled briefly from my head, exposing my face. He waved towards a door across the courtyard. Diese Tur. Obergeschosse. Grune Tur auf der rechten Seite.

What? I said. I dont understand.

He grew impatient again. Da, da. He gestured, taking my elbow and propelling me forwards roughly. I was shocked that he would treat a visitor to the Kommandant in 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 colour that sprang to my cheeks. I wrenched my elbow from his grasp and walked stiffly towards the small building on the right.

It was not hard to see which room was his light crept from under only 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, as if in greeting, and stepped back to allow me in.

The room was large, thick with beams, and its floorboards covered with rugs, several of which I thought I recognized from the homes of my neighbours. There was a small table and chairs, a military chest, its brass corners glowing in the light of two acetylene lamps, a coat hook, from which hung his uniform, and a large easy chair by a generously stacked fire. Its warmth was 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 paralysed, 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.

Its 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. I was 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, still standing.

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 dont 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 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 afterwards for what they had done?

Are you hungry? He gestured towards a small tray of bread and cheese. I shook my head. I had had no appetite all day.

Its 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 called Stollen. 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 a Kommandant, 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. Im 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 husbands freedom?

The air in the room grew still. He didnt 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.

Friedrich. Call me Friedrich.

Friedrich. I … have long known that you understood my husbands work. You understand beauty. You understand what an artist puts of himself into a piece of work, and why it is a thing of infinite value. So while it will break my heart to lose it, I give it willingly. To you.

He was still staring at me. I did not look away. Everything depended on this moment. I saw an old scar running several inches from his left ear down his neck, a lightly silvered ridge. I saw that his bright blue eyes were rimmed with black, as if someone had drawn around each iris for emphasis.

It was never about the painting, Sophie.

And there it was confirmation of my fate.

I closed my eyes briefly and let myself absorb this knowledge.

The Kommandant began to talk about art. I barely heard him. I lifted my glass and took a long draught. May I have some more? I said. I emptied it, then asked for it to be refilled again. I have never drunk like that, before or since. I didnt care if I appeared rude. The Kommandant continued to talk, his voice a low monotone. He didnt ask anything of me in return it was as if he wanted me only to listen. He wanted me to know that there was someone else behind the uniform and the peaked cap. But I barely heard him. I wished to blur the world around me, for this decision not to be mine.

Do you think we would have been friends, if we had met in other circumstances? I like to think we would.

I tried to forget that I was there, in that room, with a Germans eyes upon me. I wanted to be a thing, unfeeling, unknowing.

Perhaps.

Will you dance with me, Sophie?

The way he kept saying my name, as if he were entitled to.

I put down my glass and stood, my arms useless at my sides as he walked over to the gramophone and put on a slow waltz. He moved towards me and hesitated just a minute before putting his arms around me. As the music crackled into life, we began to dance. I moved slowly around the room, my hand in his, my fingers light against the soft cotton of his shirt. I danced, my mind blank, vaguely conscious of his head as it came to rest against mine. I smelt soap and tobacco, felt his trousers brush against my skirt. He held me, not pulling me to him, but carefully, as one might hold something fragile. I closed my eyes, allowing myself to sink into a haze, trying to train my mind to follow the music, to put myself somewhere else. Several times I tried to imagine he was Édouard, but my mind wouldnt let me. Everything about this man was too different his feel, his size against mine, the scent of his skin.

Sometimes, he said softly, it seems there is so little beauty left in this world. So little joy. You think life is harsh in your little town. But if you saw what we see outside it … Nobody wins. Nobody wins in a war like this.

It was as if he was speaking to himself. My fingers rested on his shoulder. I could feel the muscles move beneath his shirt as he breathed.

I am a good man, Sophie, he murmured. It is important to me that you understand that. That we understand each other.

And then the music stopped. He released me reluctantly, and went to reset the needle. He waited for the music to start again, and then, instead of dancing, he gazed for a moment at my portrait. I felt a glimmer of hope – perhaps he would still change his mind? – but then, after the slightest hesitation, he reached up and gently pulled one of the pins from my hair. As I stood, frozen, he removed the remaining pins carefully, one by one, placing them on the table, letting my hair fall softly around my face. He had drunk almost nothing but there was a glazed quality to his expression, as he watched, melancholy. His eyes searched mine, asking a question. My own gaze was unblinking, like that of a porcelain doll. But I did not look away.

As the last of my hair was released, he lifted a hand and allowed the lock to trail through his fingers. His stillness was that of a man afraid to move, a hunter unwilling to startle his prey. And then he took my face gently between his hands and kissed me. I felt momentary panic I couldnt bring myself to kiss him back. But I allowed my lips to part for his, closed my eyes. Shock made my body alien to me. I felt his hands tighten around my waist, felt him propelling me backwards towards the bed. And all the while a silent voice reminded me that this was a trade. I was buying my husband his freedom. All I had to do was breathe. I kept my eyes closed, lay down against the impossible softness of the quilts. I felt his hands on my feet, pulling my shoes off, and then they were on my legs, sliding slowly up under my skirt. I could feel his eyes on my flesh as they rose higher.

Édouard.

He kissed me. He kissed my mouth, my chest, my bare stomach, his breathing audible, lost in a world of his own imaginings. He kissed my knees, my stockinged thighs, letting his mouth rest against bare skin as if its proximity were a source of unbearable pleasure. Sophie, he murmured. Oh, Sophie …

And as his hands reached the innermost part of my thighs, some treacherous part of me sparked into life, a warmth that was nothing to do with the fire. Some part of me divorced itself from my heart, and let slip its hunger for touch, for the weight of a body against my own. As his lips traced my skin, I shifted slightly and out of nowhere a moan escaped my mouth. But the urgency of his response, the quickening of his breath on my face, quelled it as fast as it was born. My skirts were pushed up, my blouse pulled from my chest, and as I felt his mouth on my breast, I found myself turning, like some mythical figure, to stone.

He was on top of me now, his weight pinning me to the bed. I could feel his hands tugging at my underclothes, desperate to get inside them. He pushed my knee to one side, half collapsing on my chest in his desperation. I felt him hard, unyielding, against my leg. Something ripped. And then, with a little gasp, he was inside me, and my eyes were tight shut, my jaw clenched to stop myself crying out in protest.

In. In. In. I could hear the hoarseness of his breathing in my ear, feel the faint sheen of his sweat against my skin, the buckle of his belt against my thigh. My body moved, propelled by the urgency of his. Oh, God, what have I done? In. In. In. My fists closed around two handfuls of quilt, my thoughts jumbled and transient. Some distant part of me resented their soft, heavy warmth more than almost anything. Stolen from someone. Like they stole everything. Occupied. I was occupied. I disappeared. I was in a street in Paris, rue Soufflot. The sun was shining, and around me, as I walked, I could see Parisian women in their finery, the pigeons strutting through the dappled shadows of the trees. My husbands arm was linked through mine. I wanted to say something to him but instead I let out a small sob. The scene stilled, and evaporated. And then I was aware dimly that it had stopped. The pushing slowed, then stopped. Everything had stopped. The thing. His thing was no longer inside me but soft, curling apologetically against my groin. I opened my eyes, and found myself looking straight into his.

The Kommandants face, inches from my own, was flushed, his expression agonized. I stopped breathing as I grasped his predicament. I didnt know what to do. But his eyes locked on mine and he knew that I knew. He pushed himself roughly backwards so that his weight was off me.

You – he began.

What? I was conscious of my exposed breasts, my skirt bunched around my waist.

Your expression … so …

He stood, and I averted my eyes while I heard him pull up his trousers and fasten them. He stared rigidly away from me, one hand on the top of his head.

I – Im sorry, I began. I wasnt sure what I was apologizing for. What did I do?

You – you – I didnt want that! He gestured towards me. Your face …

I dont understand. I was almost angry then, accosted by the unfairness of it. Did he have any idea what I had endured? Did he know what it had cost me to let him touch me? I did what you wanted!

I didnt want you like that! I wanted … he said, his hand lifted in frustration. I wanted this! I wanted the girl in the painting!

We both stared in silence at the portrait. The girl gazed steadily back at us, her hair around her neck, her expression challenging, glorious, sexually replete. My face.

I pulled my skirts over my legs, clutched my blouse around my neck. When I spoke, my voice was thick, tremulous. I gave you … Herr Kommandant … everything I was capable of giving.

His eyes became opaque, a sea that had frozen. The tic jumped in his jaw, a juddering pulse. Get out, he said quietly.

I blinked.

Im sorry, I stammered, when I realized I had heard him correctly. If … I can …

GET OUT! he roared. He grabbed my shoulder, his fingers digging into my flesh, and wrenched me across the room.

My shoes … my shawls!

OUT, DAMN YOU! I had time only to grab my painting, and then I was propelled out of the door, stumbling to my knees at the top of the stairs, my mind still struggling to grasp what was happening. There was the sound of a tremendous crash behind the door. And then another, this time accompanied by the sound of splintering glass. I glanced behind me. Then, barefoot, I ran down the stairs, across the courtyard and fled.

It took me almost an hour to walk home. I lost the feeling in my feet after a quarter of a mile. By the time I reached the town they were so frozen that I was not aware of the cuts and grazes I had collected on the long walk up the flinted farm track. I walked on, stumbling through the dark, the painting under my arm, shivering in my thin blouse, and I felt nothing. As I walked, my shock gave way to understanding of what I had done, and what I had lost. My mind spun with it. I walked through the deserted streets of my home town, no longer caring if anyone saw me.

I reached Le Coq Rouge shortly before one oclock. I heard the clock chime a solitary note as I stood outside, and wondered briefly whether it would be better for everyone if I failed to let myself in at all. And then, as I stood there, a tiny glow appeared behind the gauze curtain and the bolts were drawn back on the other side. Hélène appeared, her night bonnet on, her white shawl around her. She must have waited up for me.

I looked up at her, my sister, and I knew then that she had been right all along. I knew that what I had done had put our entire family at risk. I wanted to tell her I was sorry. I wanted to tell her I understood the depth of my mistake, and that my love for Édouard, my desperation for our life together to continue, had made me blind to everything else. But I couldnt speak. I just stood in the doorway, mute.

Her eyes widened as she took in my bare shoulders, my naked feet. She reached out a hand and pulled me in, closing the door behind her. She placed her shawl around my shoulders, smoothed my hair back from my face. Wordlessly, she led me to the kitchen, closed the door and lit the range. She heated a cup of milk, and as I held it I couldnt drink it, she unhooked our tin bath from its place on the wall and put it on the floor, in front of the range. She filled copper pot after copper pot with water, which she boiled, wrenched from the stove and poured into the bath. When it was full enough, she walked around me and carefully removed the shawl. She unlaced my blouse, then lifted my chemise over my head, as she might with a child. She unbuttoned my skirts at the back, loosened my corset, then unhooked my petticoats, laying them all on the kitchen table until I was naked. As I began to shake, she took my hand and helped me step into the bath.

The water was scalding, but I barely felt it. I lowered myself so that most of me, except my knees and shoulders, was under the water, ignoring the stinging of the cuts on my feet. And then my sister rolled up her sleeves, took a washcloth, and began to soap me, from my hair to my shoulders, from my back to my feet. She bathed me in silence, her hands tender as she worked, lifting each limb, gently wiping between each finger, carefully ensuring that there was no part of me not cleansed. She bathed the soles of my feet, delicately removing the small pieces of stone that had embedded themselves in the cuts. She washed my hair, rinsing it with a bowl until the water ran clear, then combed it out, strand by strand. She took the washcloth, and wiped at the tears that rolled silently down my cheeks. All the while she said nothing. Finally, as the water began to cool and I started to shake again, from cold or exhaustion or something else entirely, she took a large towel and wrapped me in it. Then she held me, put me into a nightgown and led me upstairs to my bed.

Oh, Sophie, I heard her murmur, as I drifted into sleep. And I think I knew even then what I had brought down upon us all.

What have you done?