Honeymoon in Paris: A Novella

painted it.’ I don’t know why I felt the need to tell him
    that.
    Perhaps it was the certainty of my righteous
    indignation. Perhaps it was the obvious difference between the girl in the picture and
    the girl who stood before him. Perhaps it was the weeping blonde child who stood at my
    feet. It is possible that even
Kommandants
, two years into this occupation,
    have become weary of harassing us for petty misdemeanours.
    He looked at the painting a moment longer,
    then at his feet.
    ‘I think we have made ourselves clear,
    Madame. Our conversation is not finished. But I will not disturb you further
    tonight.’
    He caught the flash of surprise on my face,
    barely suppressed, and I saw that it satisfied something in him. It was perhaps enough
    for him to know I had believed myself doomed. He was smart, this man, and subtle. I
    would have to be wary.
    ‘Men.’
    His soldiers turned, blindly obedient as
    ever, and walked out towards their vehicle, their uniforms silhouetted against the
    headlights. I followed him and stood just outside the door. The last I heard of his
    voice was the order to the driver to make for the town.
    We waited as the military vehicle travelled
    back down the road, its headlights feeling their way along the pitted surface.
    Hélène had begun to shake. She scrambled to her feet, her hand white-knuckled
    at her brow, her eyes tightly shut. Aurélien stood awkwardly beside me, holding
    Mimi’s hand, embarrassed by his childish tears. I waited for the last sounds of
    the engine to die away. It whined over the hill, as if it, too, were acting under
    protest.
    ‘Are you hurt, Aurélien?’ I
    touched his head. Flesh wounds. And bruises. What kind of men attacked an unarmed
    boy?
    He flinched. ‘It didn’t
    hurt,’ he said. ‘They didn’t frighten me.’
    ‘I thought he would arrest you,’
    my sister said. ‘I thought he would arrest us all.’ I was afraid when she
    looked like that: as if she were teetering on the edge of some vast abyss. She wiped her
    eyes and forced a smile as she crouched to hug her daughter. ‘Silly Germans. They
    gave us all a fright, didn’t they? Silly Maman for being frightened.’
    The child watched her mother, silent and
    solemn. Sometimes I wondered if I would ever see Mimi laugh again.
    ‘I’m sorry. I’m all right
    now,’ she went on. ‘Let’s all go inside. Mimi, we have a little milk I
    will warm for you.’ She wiped her hands on her bloodied gown, and held her hands
    towards me for the baby. ‘You want me to take Jean?’
    I had started to tremble convulsively, as if
    I had only just realized how afraid I should have been. My legs felt watery, their
    strength seeping into the cobblestones. I felt a desperate urge to sit down.
    ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I suppose you should.’
    My sister reached out, then gave a small
    cry. Nestling in the blankets, swaddled neatly so that it was barely exposed to the
    night air, was the pink, hairy snout of the piglet.
    ‘Jean is asleep upstairs,’ I
    said. I thrust a hand at the wall to keep myself upright.
    Aurélien looked over her shoulder. They
    all stared at it.
    ‘
Mon Dieu
.’
    ‘Is it dead?’
    ‘Chloroformed. I remembered Papa had a
    bottle in his study, from his butterfly-collecting days. I think it will wake up. But
    we’re going to have to find somewhere else to keep it for when they return. And
    you know they will return.’
    Aurélien smiled then, a rare, slow
    smile of delight. Hélène stooped to show Mimi the comatose little pig, and
    they grinned. Hélène kept touching its snout, clamping a hand over her face,
    as if she couldn’t believe what she was holding.
    ‘You held the pig before them? They
    came here and you held it out in front of their noses? And then you told them off for
coming here
?’ Her voice was incredulous.
    ‘In front of their snouts,’ said
    Aurélien, who seemed suddenly to have recovered some of his swagger. ‘Hah!
    You held it in front of their snouts!’
    I sat down on the cobbles and began to
    laugh. I laughed until my skin grew chilled and I didn’t know whether I was
    laughing or weeping. My brother, perhaps afraid I was becoming hysterical, took my hand
    and rested against me. He was fourteen, sometimes bristling like a man, sometimes
    childlike in his need for reassurance.
    Hélène was still deep in thought.
    ‘If I had known …’ she said. ‘How did you become so brave,
    Sophie? My little sister! Who made you like this? You were a mouse